


I Am A We

by sunshine_333



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sense8 (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: (no need to have seen the series), And every else is psychic, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Depiction of Suicide, Drug-Use, Fantasy Racism, Gay Panic, Graphic Torture, Gray Morality, Hurt/Comfort, Marvel Cameos, Mind Meld, Modern/No Powers AU, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Orgy, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Sam Wilson is So Done, Sense8 AU, Sex Work, Tony Stark is still Iron man, but no other powers, dub-con, non-canon ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_333/pseuds/sunshine_333
Summary: Steve Rogers. Tony Stark. Clint Barton. Natasha Romanov. Bruce Banner. Thor Odinson. Peter Parker. Wanda Maximoff.Eight strangers across the globe find themselves connected -- first by a violent vision, then by their shared ability to connect with one another's thoughts and actions, and finally by the urgent need to find out what happened and why.***A Marvel Sense8 AU!
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Betty Ross, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Sif & Thor (Marvel), Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Limbic Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So I've totally been obsessed with Sense8 recently and I thought why not create a Marvel AU lol. I totally don't have time for this! But I'm doing it anyway! It follows the plot of Sense8 pretty closely, but you do NOT have to have seen it to read this fic. 
> 
> I have aged up/down every character so that they are all the same age (26). So basically Tony got kidnapped by Ten Rings when he was 25. Tony's the only character who I kept the same story for. So, Peter isn't Spiderman, Steve isn't Captain America, Wanda isn't Scarlet Witch, etc etc. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

  


_Boston, Massachusetts - U.S._

  


The building was tall and imposing. In another life, it might have been a church or a cathedral. But, in this life, it was only a vessel. 

The woman inside wore a white dress. She laid on a stained mattress in the middle of the room. She had once been beautiful, but now only remainants of that beauty could be seen. Her unblemished skin was splotchy and clammy, her blue eyes were bloodshot and wild, her golden hair was matted and dirty. 

Her back arched off the mattress again, screams echoing through the building, disturbing the still air. Her fingers scrambled for metal box that lay near the foot of her bed. Inside was a syringe filled with a golden brown liquid. She plunged it into her arm, gritting her teeth and falling back onto the mattress. 

Underneath a ratty blanket was a small, black handgun. She pulled it out and gripped it tightly as her body tensed and a scream tore from her throat once again. She seemed to be pleading with someone. Herself, maybe. 

Then, there was a man. He had dark skin and a black eyepatch over one eye. His bald head gleamed with sweat as he wrapped his arms around the woman. 

“My love, you are doing so well. You are almost there. You are almost done.” Nick Fury murmured, his voice soft and loving. 

“I can’t, Nick,” the woman sobbed back, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t….”

She rocked back and forth, clutching her sides. Her face twisted. Fury hushed her and rubbed a soothing hand down her back, her sides. He sat behind her, head rested on her shoulder as he spoke more gentle words of encouragement. 

“Just a little while longer, dearest. They are so close, can you see them?” 

The woman nodded wildly, her breath coming in short pants now. “Yes, yes, yes, they are coming.” She gasped. “They are so beautiful, Nick, so, so beautiful.” 

Another man appeared in front of the woman. This one had a square face and black glasses. When he saw Carol, he laughed. 

“Oh, Carol. Now what on earth do you think you’re doing?” Alexander Pierce said, “You know what will happen. You know I can't allow it. I will be here any minute.” 

“Is he here?” Fury asked her. 

She nodded.

“My love, don’t let him in. You are so, so strong, only a little longer. You must fight him.” He sounded more urgent now, his arms tightening around her. 

Carol shook her head, her body racking with sobs. “I can’t, Nick, I can’t, he’ll be here any minute.” 

Fury closed his eyes, turning his face into her neck. He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in as Carol trembled and convulsed, crying out once more. 

“Then it must be now, you must do it now.” 

His hand closed over her own on the handgun. Carol moaned and turned her face away. 

“I don’t….” She gasped, “I don’t know if I can. Not with you here, go. Please, go Nick.” 

Fury’s face tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut. After a second, he gave a sharp nod and pressed a kiss to Carol’s temple. Then, Fury was gone. 

“Carol, come now.” Pierce’s voice had lost all lightness. He glanced nervously to the gun and back to her face. “You can’t do this.” He leaned in closer, breath blowing hotly against her cheek. "You’re not strong enough, Carol.” Her name was hissed through his teeth.

Carol brought the gun up to her face and pressed the nozzle to her mouth. She took deep shuddering breaths.

“Carol, wait! I will be here any second now.” There were sounds of running feet coming towards her. Pierce’s eyes were wild and panicked. “Don’t do this!” 

He rounded the corner, running towards Carol and his Other Self sitting next to her. Behind him were a dozen men in black suits. They held their guns low. He started racing towards her, as his Other Self pleaded with her not to pull the trigger. 

But Carol’s face was determined. Right before she pulled the trigger, the corners of her lips turned up slightly and her eyes softened by a fraction. She looked to be a glowing mother, fresh out of birth. There was a loud bang. A burst of red. And time stopped. 

There were eight of them, standing there looking at her. Happiness swelled in her heart like a balloon. She wished she could spread her arms wide, take them all in, hold them all close. Tears sparked in the corners of her eyes and she wished so hard that she could have known them. She mouthed their names as she fell backward. 

_Anthony Stark_

A dark-haired man in a suit and sunglasses adjusts his tie in front of a mirror. A tall, blonde woman stands next to him, reading off a clipboard. 

_Natalia Romanov_

A woman with short, red hair applies lipstick. The file open on her desk says “Yelena Bolvena” in big, bold letters. She closes it. 

_Clinton Barton_

A blonde man cleans a bar top with an old rag. Another man comes up behind him, gripping his shoulder and ruffling his hair as he passes.

_Bruce Banner_

A short, brown-haired man with glasses hunches over a chemistry set. A woman laughs and tells him to back up before he burns his eyebrows off again. 

_Steve Rogers_

A blonde police-officer pulls on his vest. His mouth is set in a hard line as he holsters his gun and grabs his keys. 

_Thor Odinson_

A huge man with shoulder length blonde hair poses in front of a camera and waves a pride flag, smiling at something the girl taking the picture says. 

_Peter Parker_

A man with brown hair laughs as his friend turns on the tv. He points towards the massive stack of lab reports on his desk and shakes his head. 

_Wanda Maximoff_

A woman with long, red hair dances in a club. She throws her arm around a silver-haired boy and tips her head back, grinning wide. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

  


The dream started off with Bucky. Not uncommon for Steve. 

Bucky stood in front of what looked like a church, wearing a white shirt and pants. Beckoning for Steve to follow him, he turned and went inside the church. Steve blinked and suddenly, he stood in a large atrium. Bucky was gone, but a woman in a white dress was standing in front of him. She looked tired and her skin gleamed with sweat. Steve wanted to help her. He reached out, but she disappeared before he could touch her. 

“Help me!” A voice rang out. 

Steve whirled around and found himself standing in front of a dirty mattress, the same blonde-haired woman laying on it. Her back arched and she screamed over and over again. Steve clamped his hands over his ears. He felt like screaming himself. The pain was fire. It was too much. Too much, too much, too much, too much. 

He sucked in a harsh breath and the scene changed again. The blonde woman was still in front of him, but now a dark skinned man was behind her, stroking her cheek and holding her. Steve still felt her pain and he ached for her. He fell to his knees. The woman looked at him and smiled. 

“My child.” 

A gun shot echoed through the church. 

  


Steve awoke with a gasp. His chest felt tight and he was covered in sweat. He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, his breath coming fast and sharp. It took a few moments before he regained control of his senses and realized that he had a killer headache. 

“Great.” He muttered as he fell back against his pillow. If only someone would turn off that goddamned music…. 

Music? Yes, there was a pulsing beat playing, like the kind you’d hear at a club. 

With a sigh, Steve pushed himself off his bed and made his way over to his roommate's door. 

“Hey, Sam? Dude, what’s with the music?” He said, knocking on the door. When there was no response he groaned and knocked again, a little harder. “Hey, c’mon Sam, we have work in like,” he checked his watch, “fuck, three hours dude! What the hell are you doing?” Still no response. 

Steve let out a sigh and resigned himself to his fate. It’s not like he was gonna get any sleep with this headache anyways. 

It wasn’t until he had lain back down and turned his light off that he realized the music was gone. He didn’t remember when it had been turned off. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


Wanda laughed and threw her head back, body writhing along to the music. It was intoxicating, so loud she could feel it in her bones, just the way she liked. The drink in her hand was sweating and she was thankful for the cool water droplets that landed on her overheated skin. 

Whatever Pietro had given her earlier was top tier, the world was vibrant and just a little out of focus. She closed her eyes and grinned widely. 

  


“Oh, Wanda! You gotta meet this guy!” Pietro said, dragging her by the hand to the roof. 

They weaved their way through groups of clubbers, Wanda smiling apologetically. The man they stopped in front of was tall and middle-aged with slicked back hair. He smiled slightly and held out his hand for her to shake. 

“Vlad. It's a pleasure to meet you, Wanda.” He said. 

“Thanks, yeah, it is nice to meet you too.” She said, shaking his hand. He had an English accent, probably a London native. 

“Wanda, _sestra_ , this man is crazy. The stuff he has, fuck it’s the shit of gods!” Pietro said. 

“You must come by my place after this,” Vlad said, “Pietro flatters me, but what I have definitely guarantees a good time.” 

Something about him made Wanda uneasy. He seemed too reserved, too old to be at a club like this. 

“Wands, tell him about the vision you had!” 

“Pietro, no, it was nothing. Just overdid it on the coke.” Wanda muttered. 

“She saw this, like, woman in white giving birth, except she wasn't even pregnant. And she could feel her pain, right Wanda? And then she shoots herself like BAM! And Wands felt it! It was like you were watching her and you _were_ her at the same time.” Pietro went on anyways, gesticulating wildly. 

“Interesting,” Vlad said. He seemed to think for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Do either of you know what limbic resonance is?” 

Both Wanda and Pietro shook their heads. 

“The limbic system of the brain is where our ability to empathically connect with other humans comes from.” He reached out and rested his fingers on the side of Wanda’s head, right over her temple. She resisted the urge to cringe away.

"Some scientists believe that we could evolve to sympathetically connect. We would be able to feel and know others pain, instinctively.” He finished in a whisper, eyes boring into Wanda’s. She blinked and Vlad dropped his hand. 

“Oh yeah, yeah! There was this one time when Wanda was at school and I was pulled out for a doctor’s appointment, or some shit. She stubbed her toe on the cafeteria table and even though I wasn’t there I, like, _knew_. That’s so fucking crazy.” Pietro laughed and clapped Vlad on the shoulder. “You’re so fucking crazy, man.” 

“It was just a dream, Pietro.” Wanda muttered. She had a migraine. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S._

_  
_

“And what would you say, Mr. Stark, is your driving force? What gets you out of those silk sheets every morning?” 

  


“First of all, they’re Egyptian cotton, 500 thread count. And well, I’d have to say my private yacht? Most recently? I just got it, very excited about it.” 

The reporter laughed, placing a perfectly manicured hand on his arm. Tony wanted to throw it off. 

He felt like hell frozen over and this bullshit interview Pepper made him agree to wasn’t helping. His head was pounding and he still hadn’t slept after his nightmare the other night. Not that he was any stranger to nightmares, but this was one….different. Too real, too vivid. The press woman was talking. 

“You really are just as much of a crack up as everyone says. But really, what motivates you? Especially with this new change coming to your company, what caused you to shift away from weapons manufacturing.” 

Tony wanted to shake her. What a stupid fucking question. Uh, not sure, maybe the fact that he was kidnapped and held hostage for _six weeks_ by his own fucking weapons. Jesus Christ. 

“Uh, yeah, good question by the way. I guess….I never got to say goodbye to my father.” Tony paused, thinking over his answer. "There’s questions I would’ve asked him. I would’ve asked him how he felt about what his company did. If he was conflicted, if he ever had doubts.” 

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. He needed to shave. "Or maybe he was every inch the man we remember from the news reels. I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I….had become part of the system that is comfortable with zero accountability.” 

  


After the interview ended, Pepper pulled him aside. 

“Tony, are you feeling okay? I mean, that was great what you said about zero accountability and all that, but you don’t seem like yourself today.” 

“I know, Pep, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just have this killer headache and her hands were bothering me —“

“Her hands were bothering you? Tony what —” 

“—and I just want to go home. Yeah? Can we go home?” He asked, putting his sunglasses back on and already starting to walk towards the door. 

“Yeah, yeah of course, Tony. I’m just worried about you. Yesterday you were having visions of suicidal angels and today with that press conference….You’d tell me if something was going on right?” She looked worried, her brow furrowing slightly. 

“Yeah. Yes. Of course, Pep. Who else would I tell? Dum-E? He’d probably just spray me with the fire extinguisher, useless piece of crap. Which reminds me, I want to move the fire extinguisher out of the lab — "

“That seems like a safety hazard — “

“ — it kind of feels like I’m just tempting fate at this point.” He stopped and looked at her. “I’m okay, really. Scout’s honor.” 

And if he was lying, it was worth it just to see her relieved smile. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

  


A ringing broke through the silence. Natasha picked up her phone. ’No caller ID’. She answered immediately. 

“Have you found anything?” She asked, not waiting for the other person to say anything.

There was a pause. “No we haven’t, Miss Romanov, I’m sorry.” 

Natasha let out a breath and tipped her head back, closing her eyes. 

“It’s fine. Keep looking. I’ll send you the check tomorrow.” 

The call was ended with a small click. Natasha threw the phone onto her bed. She stared at it for a second, as though she could will it into ringing, into telling her something, _anything_. 

She rubbed her temple, she could feel the beginnings of a migraine. Rummaging through her desk drawer for some Advil, Natasha wondered what Yelena was doing right now. Maybe she had a migraine too. Snorting at the thought, she located the pills, popped one into her mouth, and sat down at her vanity. 

As she touched up her makeup, she tried to steer her thoughts towards her next client. _Mr. Volkov_. Probably a fake name. This wasn’t his first time coming to the service, but it was the first time she had ever had him as a client. According to Anya, she was in for a long night. Mr. Volkov apparently believed personal hygiene was a mere suggestion. 

“Mmmm, Natalia, you are something mystical aren’t you.” Volkov breathed. His breath was hot and smelled like cheap vodka. Natasha resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. 

She didn’t say anything in response, only reached down and popped the button on his discount slacks. Dropping to her knees, she undid the zipper with her teeth, smirking as she felt him jump in his underwear. She looked back up at him and her heart stopped. 

Volkov was gone.

In his place stood a woman in all white. Natasha's head pulsed as she gaped up at the woman. She was covered in sweat and her pupils were blown wide. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Volkov sneered. 

The woman put a gun to her mouth, finger tightening over the trigger. Natasha flinched, squeezing her eyes shut instinctively. 

When she opened her eyes again, the woman had disappeared. Only Volkov and his stinking breath remained, staring down at her. She managed a seductive nod. 

“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen any quite so….large.” She breathed, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Okay, so maybe she was laying it on thick, but she was rattled. When she took him in her mouth and closed her eyes, the image of the woman in white flashed behind her lids. 

**

_Peter - New York, U.S._

  


Peter was so, so screwed. He was going to be late. Late on his first day at one of the top institutes in the field. He’s gonna be fired before he even steps foot in the top-of-the-line labs at Hammer Industries. _Shit_. Classic Parker luck. 

“Hey, Ned, do you know where the umbrella went?” He shouted, rummaging around in their tiny closet. He could’ve sworn he saw it in here, just last week. 

“Yeah, I think MJ borrowed it for that Mary Poppins cosplay thing this weekend. Why do you need it, though?” Ned said back. 

“What do you mean? It’s pouring….” Peter’s voice trailed away as he looked out the window and saw only a bright, sunny day. Not even a drop of water drying on the ground. Huh. He was sure it was raining two seconds ago.

“Hey, aren’t you gonna be late? What time are you supposed to get there?” Ned said, coming around the corner. 

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be there in like,” he checks his watch, “shit, five minutes. Bye, Ned.” 

“Bye, honey! Bring home the bacon!” Ned yelled out after him as Peter flew through the door. It’s moments like this he wished he was Tony Stark. An Iron Man suit with flying power would come in so handy right now. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

  


The rain was coming down so hard, it almost drowned out the sound of his aunt’s tears. 

She stood in front of the grave, soaking wet because she was dramatic and had refused the umbrella his uncle tried to offer her. Finally, she tossed a single white rose on the grave and turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Clint’s uncle wrapped an arm around her as they began the slow procession down the street. 

Clint let out a sigh of relief. That had taken so fucking long. Katie elbowed him in the side. 

“You’re being disrespectful.” She muttered through gritted teeth, her head bowed, blonde hair covered with a black scarf. 

He elbowed her back just as hard. “It was Dad. He deserves it. Plus I have a migraine, I should be laying down in a dark room with all the blinds closed. Not out here, pissing on Dad's fucking grave.”

“No, Clint, tell me you didn’t.” Katie turned to him. 

He smirked in response. 

“You’re such a dickhead.” She said, but he could tell she was holding back laughter. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

  


“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the woman said, grasping his hands, “you are an angel.” 

Bruce laughed a little, “I’m not an angel, just someone able to help.” 

She shook her head, tears leaking onto her cheeks. “Sounds like something an angel would say.” 

Bruce didn’t respond, instead kneeling by the boy’s bed. His fever would probably break tonight, but he left the mother with strict instructions to call him if it spiked above 102 again. The antibiotics should also be kicking in soon. 

“Hey, little guy,” he whispered, “you gotta be strong for me. Can you do that? Be strong?” 

The boy gave a weak nod and Bruce smiled, patting his head. “Good boy.” He nodded to the mother and left the house, heading toward one of the buses that would take him back to the lab. 

On the way, he thought about what the woman had said. _Angel_. Shame burned in his chest. He was the furthest thing from an angel. 

Once, he might have taken pride in his work, pride in himself for doing such good work, and for free too. But now it just felt like repentance. Maybe if he saved enough small boys, it would cancel out the weight on his soul. He sighed and passed a hand over his face. Maybe he should take a nap when he got back, his head was pounding. 

  


“Look alive, Banner! The results just came back!” Betty shouted and Bruce jerked awake, finding her face about two inches from his. 

“Jesus, Betty. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He rubbed his face. “Wait, did you say the results were back?” 

“Yeah, sleepyhead, get up! I was just heading over there.” 

He dressed quickly then followed her down the short hallway that led to one of the many research labs occupying the Ugandan military base they were stationed at. The heat, he didn’t mind. The dust, was another thing entirely. He tried to brush some off of his black pants, but gave up. He was pretty sure it had fused with the fibers at this point.

Betty was at computer already, checking the latest round of tests they had ordered. She gasped. 

“What? What is it?” He said, rushing over to look at the screen. 

“It works.” She turned to look at him, tears in her eyes. “Holy shit, it works, Bruce. We did it!” She shouted, pulling him into a painful hug. 

He could still see the results over her shoulder and even as he laughed and patted her back, dread filled his stomach. 

**

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S._

  


“Here.” Sif said, handing Thor two Ibuprofen. 

“Thanks.” He said, popping them in his mouth. “I don’t know what this is, I never get headaches.” 

“I know, I know, there's nothing in that head to hurt, anyways.” She said, nudging his shoulder. 

Thor just rolled his eyes, picking up the water bottle on his nightstand and swallowing the pills. 

“You better hope those kick in quick, t-minus 30 minutes before we have to leave.” 

Thor groaned. That’s right, The gala was still happening. He had been hoping for some kind of miracle that would allow him to skip it. No such luck. Instead, he just had a pounding headache that refused to go away and a $400 suit. Fuck him. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

  


“Just, try to help me understand, Bruce! This is huge! Why wouldn’t we tell my father?” Betty was frustrated, standing a few feet away from him in the lab, the results still up on the screen. 

“I just….I don’t know, maybe we should run a few more tests. Y’know, make sure it really works. Data can be misleading.” Bruce felt like he was begging. He knew he was being irrational, but something in him told him that telling General Ross now would be a huge mistake. 

He just didn’t know how to tell Betty that. 

“Bruce,” her eyes softened and she stepped closer, “Bruce, we did it. The data isn't wrong or misleading. It’s true and it’s telling us that it works. We have changed the way our soldiers fight forever. Do you know what kind of advantages we could have with this serum? This is just one step closer to world peace! And isn’t that the goal?” She asked, arms spreading wide, bumping a Bunsen burner. "Isn’t that what all of this is — oh _shit_!”

She screamed, jumping back from the flames licking up the side of her desk. 

The Bunsen burner had toppled over, igniting one of the gas lines that Bruce was always forgetting to close. He cursed and jumped into action, running for the fire extinguisher. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

_  
_

“What the _fuck_?!” She jumped back as flames licked up the side of her vanity. 

They had sprung up out of no where. Probably one of the girls forgetting to turn off a curling iron. 

She whirled around, looking for a fire extinguisher, heart pounding. Of course they didn’t get fire extinguishers in their rooms. That would imply they had a right to _safety_. She laughed a little hysterically as she grabbed one of the knit blankets on top of her bed. She could feel the heat licking the side of her face as she turned back around. 

The fire was gone. Not even a smolder or an ash remained. 

“What the fuck?” She whispered again. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


Wanda rounded the bend at the end of staircase and leaned up against the railing. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Vlad had said. _Limbic Resonance_. Was that what was happening to her? Last night, did a woman call out to her for help somewhere in the world? It sounded crazy. _She_ sounded crazy. But the dream was too real, too tangible to be normal. 

She sighed, shaking her head a little. What she needed was some Advil, a smoke, and a good nap. 

She looked behind her to see if Pietro was coming and her heart stopped. 

There was the woman. 

She stood at the top of the staircase, still in that white dress. Wanda could see track marks on her left arm. She stepped up onto the first stair, terrified that if she broke eye contact with the woman, she’d disappear again. 

“Are you okay?” She whispered. 

“Who are you talking to, _sestra_?” Pietro said, coming down the stairs. The woman was gone. 

Wanda blinked. “Uh, no one. Myself. Sorry, It’s been a long night, Pietro. I’m headed back to the apartment, do you want a ride?” 

“Are you crazy, Wands? You can’t stay in tonight. Vlad invited us back to his place, shit’s gonna get crazy.” Pietro had reached the bottom of the stairwell and he slung an arm around Wanda’s shoulder. “C’mon Wands, when have you ever said no to drugs before, eh? It will be fun.” 

Wanda shook her head, shrugging his arm off. “No, not tonight, Pietro,” she muttered, “my head is pounding.” 

“Oh, you are no fun, _sestra_.” Pietro pouted, dramatically. “Fine, fine, I will just have to have fun for the both of us. See you in the morning.” He kissed her cheek and rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. 

Wanda sighed again, rubbing her temple. 

“Here.” A voice said. 

Wanda opened her eyes. 

She stood in a small studio apartment, sun streaming through the open windows. The air was warm and she could hear city noises from outside. The woman in front of her was built like a wrestler, strong arms and legs, broad chest. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and she spoke in an American accent. 

“Thor, c’mon, pull your shit together and put on the suit, it’ll be over before you know it.” The woman said, holding out a suit to Wanda. 

Wanda blinked again and the apartment was gone. She was back in the stairwell, cold and dark. 

She was alone. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

  


“I’m telling you, Sam, it wasn’t a dream. That shit was way too real. It was like….it was like I could _feel_ her pain, y’know?” Steve said, walking down the precinct stairs. Sam still looked skeptical. 

“You know I don’t fuck with psychic shit, Stevie, gives me the creeps. I don’t know, maybe you ate something weird before bed? Lay off the protein shakes and raw eggs for a day and let me know how you feel.” 

“This is serious, Sam, I’m worried something’s wrong.” 

Sam sighed, opening his car door and ducking inside. Steve got in the passenger side. “Look, if you’re really worried, one of my buddies in the V.A. has a really good psychiatrist. I could give you his number, if you want. But, Stevie, don’t stress about this too much. We’re cops. We get weird dreams sometimes. It’s like our thing.” 

Steve nodded as they took off. “Yeah,” he let out a breath, “yeah, no you’re right. I’m reading too much into this. Sorry, I know you’re probably sick of hearing about my shit.” 

“Hey,” Sam glanced over to him, eyes serious, “I will never be sick of hearing about your shit. Your shit is my shit, you know that.” He looked back toward the road. “Speaking of your shit, are you sure this has nothing to do with B—“

“No.” Steve interrupted, mouth in a straight line. “No, it has nothing to do with him, I’m sure.”

“Okay, nothing to do with him, got it.” 

The radio went off. “ _10-71, dispatch, I repeat 10-71. We got shots fired near Charles._ ” 

Steve grabbed it, “Copy that, en route.” 

Sam stepped on the gas and switched on their sirens. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

  


Clint breathed out through his mouth, dropping his right hand from his nose. The coke was already starting to numb his throat and his breath sounded impossibly loud. There was a loud sniff and he looked down to see Katie do the last line, tucking the rolled up bill back into her purse. 

He glared at her. “Uh, whose drugs are these again? I’m pretty the rule goes that whoever bought the drugs gets to have the last of the drugs.” 

She shrugged. “Sucks to suck, Barton.” 

He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re a cunt, Bishop. We should leave soon, anyways.” He swept his hand over the top of the gravestone, removing any lingering powder. “Thanks for the gravestone, dad. Let’s do this again, yeah?” 

Katie laughed and threaded her arm through his as they started to walk away. Faintly, sirens sounded off in the distance. Clint froze. They sounded like they were coming closer. His heart pounded as he strained his ears. They were definitely coming closer. 

“What?” Katie whispered, “Clint, what is it?” 

“The sirens,” Clint whispered back, “we need to get out of here right now.” 

“Clint, what sirens? I don’t hear anything.” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


Wanda rested her head on her hand. The tv was on, some news report about a major scientific breakthrough in Uganda, but she wasn’t paying attention. 

It had to be significant that she saw the woman again. Or maybe she just saw her again because she was thinking of her. It could have just been a trick of the light. 

She closed her eyes. She could hear sirens in the distance. 

A trick of the light couldn’t explain the apartment and the dark haired woman. It was warm and she felt it. She felt the sun on her face, she smelled the soup on the stove. It was like she was there. Which is impossible because she hadn’t been in a sunny apartment, she had been in a dark stairwell at night, alone. 

Maybe she had a brain tumor. 

She snorted. With her luck, she probably did. 

The sirens were getting closer. She frowned, getting up and walking over to the window. But when she looked out, the street was quiet and empty. 

**

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S._

  


The suit was tailored to fit his exact measurement, but it felt too tight anyway. Thor’s head still pounded, despite the Advil, and the ballet they were watching had been going for almost three hours. 

Sif elbowed him in the chest. “Stop squirming.” She whispered through clenched teeth. 

He didn’t say anything but stuck his tongue out at her. He felt like his brain had been rubbed raw and the soft piano music was grating his nerves. 

Finally the dancers pranced off stage, graceful arms outstretched. Thor let out a not-so-conspicuous sigh of relief and brought his hands up ready to start clapping, when the lights suddenly changed. 

There was a singular spotlight in the middle of the stage, illuminating the woman who sat there, dressed in all white. Her arms were wrapped around herself and the light caught on the tears on her face. 

Thor gripped the sides of his chair, breath caught in his throat. He wanted to jump up and go to her. Help her, hold her, _something_. She was hurting, he knew. He could feel it. 

The audience cheered and clapped. Thor blinked. The woman was gone. The stage was empty and dark. He swallowed, blinking rapidly. He clapped slowly, feeling like he was in some sort of trance. What the hell was that? 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


Wanda hadn’t even taken the drugs yet, and she felt like she was in some sort of trance. 

She watched Pietro blow out a cloud of smoke. He leaned back and sighed, his lips forming an “oh.” Even from here, Wanda could see his pupils dilate. 

“You’re afraid.” Vlad said. It wasn’t a question. 

Wanda nodded anyway. She didn’t trust him. Or his drugs, for that matter. 

“You needn’t be.” He whispered. Vlad crouched down in front of the ottoman she was sitting on and took her hand. 

“You’re so beautiful, Wanda. And I don’t just mean in a physical way. There’s warmth pouring out of your heart. I know you work hard to hide it, but I can feel it.” He reached out and trailed his fingers along her collarbone. They landed right over her pounding heart and he pressed his hand flat against her chest. 

Wanda sucked a breath in, shifting in her seat. His palm was warm and dry against her clammy skin. 

“I used to be like you,” Vlad continued, “like the exposed nerve of a broken tooth. I used anything I could to insulate. Music, books, booze. Anything I could to keep myself separate from the rest of the world. Eventually I felt protected, y’know, I….I felt safe. But also….I never felt so completely alone.”

He chuckled a little, dropping the hand from Wanda’s chest. Childishly, Wanda wanted it back. She wanted to feel its warmth. She wanted to feel grounded. 

“Then one day a friend, she gave me a gift. She took away my armor. She tore down my walls. Her gift….it reminded me what it felt like to be alive.” 

“What was the gift?” Wanda whispered.

Vlad didn’t respond. He lifted the glass pipe to her lips. She glanced down at it and back up to him. He nodded slightly and hesitantly, Wanda opened her lips. Vlad held the lighter under the bowl and she sucked in. The smoke burned her throat, her lungs.

The world spun. Dizzying colors and lights became vibrant and alive. Wanda laughed a little, falling back against the couch. She was scared before, why was she scared? This was everything. This was life. She closed her eyes. The world spun and she along with it. 

When she opened her eyes again, she stood outside a police station. 

The air was cool and wind whipped her hair back. The building in front of her said ‘Boston Police Department.’ Two cops walked down the concrete stairs towards their car. One was tall and built, blonde hair and blue eyes. The other had dark skin and was slightly shorter than the first. He laughed at something the blonde-haired one had said, shaking his head a little. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

  


Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Man, you really gotta drop this. I get that it freaked you out, but it was just a dream, Stevie.” 

Steve didn’t respond, getting into the passenger side seat. 

“Anyways, have I told you about the little piece that gave me her number this weekend? Oh man, Stevie, I’m telling you, most gorgeous woman I’ve ever….” 

Sam’s voice faded into the background as Steve looked out his window. A woman with long, red hair stood there. She looked directly at him. As Sam started the car, her brow furrowed and she took a step forward, as though she wanted to reach out to him. 

They drove away. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


Wanda was sitting in the passenger seat of the police car. The man next to her was talking about a woman he hooked up with over the weekend. She knew his name was Sam. How did she know that? 

The building had said Boston. So, she was in America? But, no. She wasn’t. She was in London, sitting on an ottoman, leaning back against the couch. Vlad was talking to Pietro. She could smell the smoke. 

Sam was still talking about his weekend. She ran her hand over the seat, feeling the leather covering. How could she feel that?

They drove past a large church, tall and imposing. 

“Wait, stop.” Wanda said. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

  


“Wait, stop.” Steve said. 

Sam slammed on the brakes. “Why? You see something.” 

Steve shook his head, still looking at the church. “No, I….this is it.” 

“This is….what?”

“No, Sam. This is _it_. This is the church from my dream. I don't….how is this here?” 

Steve opened the door and stepped out of the car. He felt like he was in a trance as he walked towards the door. He could almost see Bucky standing there, dressed in those white clothes. He could almost feel the woman’s pain, radiating off her like waves of heat. 

Sam cursed and scrambled out of the car. 

“Stevie. Steve! C’mon man, what the hell are we doing here?” He called. 

Steve didn’t respond. 

The inside of the building was the same as his dream, too. Dusty and abandoned. There were broken rafters and pieces of cardboard strewn across the floor, and in some places the wood had rotted through. Steve stepped carefully through the hallway. 

They rounded a bend and….yes. It was here. Everything was exactly the same. High, cathedral style windows. A single, stained mattress in the middle of the floor. Steve blinked and saw Carol lying there, gun hanging loosely from her hand. She disappeared a moment later. 

“Steve,” Sam said as he caught up to him, “c’mon, fill me in here, what is this place?” 

“I told you, this was the place from my dream. See the mattress there? That’s where she….where she,” Steve swallowed, “did it.” 

“Aw, hell no,” Sam said, holstering his gun, “Listen man, you know I got your back. But, I really don’t fuck with all this X-Files shit.” 

“I’m being serious, Sam. What if….” He rubbed his chin, "I don’t think it was a dream.” Steve walked towards the mattress. “A woman killed herself here.” 

“Where’s the blood, Steve? Where’s the gun? Give me the evidence and I’m right there with you.” 

Steve looked around, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I’ve never been here before, right?” He bent down, lifting up the edge of the mattress. He pulled out a small metal box. “Then how do I know about this? There are drugs in here.” He opened the box, showing Sam the syringe and bottle inside. 

“There’s shit everywhere, man.” Sam said, shaking his head. "Look, you’re freakin’ me out, just….do your little seance thing and I’ll be in the car. All right?” 

Sam walked back toward the hallway. Steve put the lid back on the box, tossing it aside. He bent down, trailing his fingertips along the top of the mattress. If he concentrated, he could still hear her sobs. 

“This is where she died.” A voice said. Steve shot up, hand on his gun. The red-headed girl from the police station stood in front of him, staring at the mattress. Her voice was soft and she had an accent, maybe Russian? 

“Uh….hi.” Steve said, standing up. “Did you know her?” 

She shook her head. 

“How do you know she died here?” 

“I saw her.” The girl whispered, still staring at the mattress. 

Steve took a few tentative steps forward. The girl’s pupils were huge. She was probably just some drugged up homeless woman but….Steve felt pulled toward her. There was a kind of humming in the air that intensified the closer they got. 

“Do you live here?” He asked. 

She shook her head again. 

“Where do you live?” 

“London.” She said. 

Steve stopped a few feet away. “What are you doing here?” 

She laughed a little. “I don’t know.” Looking around, she gasped. “I don’t know where I am.” 

“Boston, near Charles.” Steve said, holding out a placating hand. Last thing he needed was a drug-induced meltdown. 

“In America?” She sounded skeptical. A second later, she let out a small laugh again. “I’ve never been to America."

Suddenly, she gasped, whipping her head around to look behind her. “What are you doing?!” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

  


“What are you doing?!” She gasped. 

Pietro pointed the gun at Vlad. “Put your fucking hands up. Now!” 

Vlad did, slowly. 

Wanda’s heart raced. She was still high, but now the vibrant colors and heightened senses only served to increase her anxiety. She sat up straight, still on the ottoman. Pietro and Vlad stood in the middle of the room. She could still see the blonde police officer standing in the corner, watching the scene with wide eyes. She ignored him for now. 

“We’re going to do this nice and easy, eh Vlad? All you need to do is put the drugs in the bag.” Pietro said, gesturing with the gun. 

Vlad didn’t move. 

“Drugs, bag, now!” Pietro yelled, his movements jerky and awkward. 

Wanda sucked in a breath. “Pietro,” she said softly, “Pietro, what are you doing?” 

“Shut the fuck up!” He hissed, not turning around. "I know….I know what I’m doing.” 

Wanda felt like sobbing. “Pietro, please, don’t.” 

This time, Pietro did turn his head. “Wands, I told you, I know what—“ 

The gunshot was loud. Wanda closed her eyes as she felt warmth spray her face. When she opened them, she was staring at Vlad’s face. He stood over her, still holding the smoking gun. She looked down and felt her heart stop. 

There was Pietro. 

Lying facedown on the apartment floor. 

His blonde hair stained red from the bullet hole in the back of his head. 

She lifted a shaking hand to her face. There was something warm and wet on it. Her fingertips came back red. 

Red just like the back of her twin brother’s head. Red with Pietro’s blood. 

Pietro’s blood. 

Pietro was bleeding. He was bleeding because he had turned his head and Vlad had grabbed the gun. Pietro had turned his head to talk to her and now he was bleeding and she had his blood on her face. 

“Wanda.” A voice said. She looked up at Vlad, but he hadn’t spoken. 

“Wanda.” It said again. She looked behind her. Oh right, the police officer. She was still high, then. 

“Wanda, you have run.” He said. 

“What?” She responded. She felt like she was floating above her body. She looked back at her fingers. They were still red. 

“Wanda, run!” The police officer said again, his blue eyes wide. 

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Vlad asked her, all kindness gone from his eyes. She thought about his warm hand on her chest. It was the same hand that held the gun he had used to kill her brother. Vlad had killed her brother. 

Oh, run. Yes. She has to run now. 

Moving quicker than she thought possible, Wanda jumped up, grabbing the bag — _Pietro’s bag. Her brother’s bag. Her dead brother’s bag_ — and ran out the door. Shouting echoed after her and she ducked as the sound of another gun shout rang through the building. Her ears rang. 

She wondered if two gunshots was enough for one night.


	2. Psychic Phenomenon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's fortunes take a dark turn, while the rest of the Sensates' connections become stronger and more dangerous.

_Peter - New York, New York U.S._

“Hi! Wow, there are a lot of people here,” Peter laughed nervously, clicking his laser pointer on and off. His hands were sweaty, but he’d be damned if he fumbled and dropped it in front of the large, already disapproving crowd. This had to go well. He needed this to go well. 

“So, uh, ready to have your minds blown by….well, your minds?” 

There was a smattering of laughter among the professors and Peter took a deep breath. Maximum effort. Let’s do this. 

He powered up the slide show and clicked to the first slide. “So, limbic resonance. Basically, it's the idea that the capacity for sharing deep, emotional, states arises from the limbic system in the brain. These include the, uh, the dopamine circuit-promoted feelings of empathic harmony and the norepinephrine circuit-originated emotional states of fear, anger, and, well, anxiety.” He said, holding up his own shaking hands, earning him another round of tittering laughter.

Taking another deep breath, he continued, “We all know that there are certain chemicals necessary for full emotional and physical well-being. Limbic resonance theorizes that humans can experience a release of these chemicals when they participate in a caring relationship.”

He clicked to another slide. "Consider our history as social animals. Humans _need_ interaction to function. Adults become depressed without it. Newborns may die when deprived of it.”

New slide. “But I propose we theorize a step further. Or should I say, backwards.” Another click and the screen now showed a Neanderthaloid figure, stooped and hairy.

"We have no evidence that early humans had any sort of language. But, what if they didn’t need language? What if they were able to communicate….” Now the screen showed a human brain, the firing of neurons represented by a series of colorful lines, stretching across the hippocampus. “Purely from sharing energy? From sharing this exchange and release of chemicals?”

There were murmurs throughout the room now, skeptical professors raising eyebrows, intrigued ones taking notes. Peter plowed forward, not giving his rising nerves a chance to sabotage him. 

“The second law of thermodynamics states that our neurons, over time, will gradually become more and more disordered. So is it really that inconceivable that this theory holds true? Wouldn’t it make sense that our brains would’ve had a much more specific and accurate technique for communication in the early days of homo sapiens? ” 

A graying professor standing near the back spoke up. “How do you plan on testing any of this? We have no anthropological knowledge of our early ancestors and, by your very theory, our brains will have changed anyways. What scientific basis are you intending to create here?” 

Peter nodded, he had been expecting this. “Uh, yeah, great question. So, the closest thing we have to this, like, incredibly pure form of connection and energy exchange is actually the drug DMT. DMT, as you know, is the chemical that is released in our brain when we die. It's also a pretty popular recreational drug found on the streets. Testimonies from users have reported, honestly, amazing insights into these energetic connections that humans share.” 

Another voice spoke up. “And you expect us to take the testimony of a drug addict in the place of actual, scientific experiments? Young man, you must be out of your damn mind.” 

A chuckle rippled through the crowd. Peter let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, jury’s still out on that one, but no actually, I don’t expect you to. If I'm given this grant to conduct my research, I'd start by microdosing volunteers with a stabilized version of DMT, monitoring their limbic systems’ reactions. Then, in a very controlled environment, I'd begin to increase their dosage. I'd do this with two volunteers at a time, in the same room, so that we can measure any energy exchange that happens between them.” 

“Is this even ethical? We can’t just go around dosing people up with dangerous drugs.” 

“Well, first of all, the participants would be volunteers. And, secondly, like I said, it'd be a stabilized version of DMT. All of the chemical proponents, none of the fun.” Peter said. 

This was his make-or-break moment. America’s Next Top Model or Chopped. 

“This is all nice and good, young man, but there is no stabilized version of DMT.”

“Uh, yeah, no, you’re right, there wasn’t. Until I figured it out.” 

The room was in stunned silence as he clicked to his final slide, the one showing his molecular formation and equations.

“I created a stabilized formation of DMT.” 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

The sound of a blaring alarm clock jerked Bruce out of his dream. He reached over to turn it off, squinting against the Ugandan sun streaming through his window. He had dreamt of the woman in white again. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the gunshot resounding, echoing through the empty church. He sat up, head pounding.

“I created a stabilized formation of DMT.” A male voice said. 

Bruce shot to his feet. 

He was standing in the middle of a crowded convention center. A brown haired man stood on a small podium at the front of the room. He was small, on the skinnier side and was wearing a slightly worn suit. He held up a clicker and the projection screen behind him changed, now displaying a series of complicated chemical equations and a molecule Bruce had never seen before. 

He blinked and the man disappeared. He was back in his bedroom, laying on his small, military issued cot. 

It was then that Bruce realized the man had spoken English. He hadn’t heard English in a formal setting like that in over six months. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York U.S._

Ned laughed, shaking his head a little. “You’re kind of a mad scientist now, Peter. Like "Mega-Mind” mad scientist. I can’t believe you pulled that off.” 

“Honestly, I can’t really believe it either. I think I’m in shock. $120,000, Ned. That’s so much money. That’s so much fucking money.” 

Ned laughed again, but Peter had frozen, champagne glass halfway to his mouth. 

There was a man standing in the corner of the room. He had dark skin, a shiny bald head, and a black eyepatch covering one eye. 

He was staring directly at Peter. 

It was like someone had flipped a switch. His heart pounded. All he could hear were the woman in white’s cries for help. All he could see was the blood-stained mattress. All he could feel was the pain, endless, agonizing pain. His head pulsed and black spots danced in front of his eyes.

He pushed through the crowd to try and get some air. The door was propped invitingly open and he could already feel an enticingly cold draft on his face. Faintly, he heard Ned's voice, yelling his name. 

Then — the sound of his champagne glass hitting the floor. Shouts, as people rushed to help him. It was all distant noise, as though he were hearing it from behind a thick wall. He was detached, floating farther and farther away until everything faded to darkness….

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

Steve was familiar with the concept of hitting rock bottom. Sitting alone in a bar at 10 am on a Tuesday, drinking to forget haunting dreams in which Bucky-fucking-Barnes starred front and center? That’s a new low, even for him. 

He tossed back the rest of his whiskey, slamming the drink back down. He nodded when the bartender asked him if he wanted another. 

Steve wondered if this was the new normal for him. 

Last night’s dream had been one of the good ones, bright and honey-colored. 

_I leaned out the window and called to him. He stopped and turned, hand shading his eyes. “Hey, Stevie!” He called, his voice faint and rugged.”Come down!”_

_Now we were walking in the grove behind the orchard, down by the leafy ravine at the base of the mountains, with Bucky on my right._

_He looked particularly angelic today, brown hair windblown, wearing a white polo and white tennis shoes. My heart leapt into my throat as I studied his profile. Rays of golden sunlight came from the setting sun, casting his sculpted face in a breathtaking contrast of light and shadow. He looked content, sated, like he’d just finished an incredibly satisfying meal._

_“When’d you get in?” I said. “I thought your mom wanted you to take the red-eye?”_

_“Dad talked her into letting me come this morning. I think she was pretty mad, though.”_

_I laughed, knocking our shoulders together. “Aw c’mon, Buck, I thought your mom liked me?”_

_“She may like you, but that won’t stop her from pouting over her precious baby boy choosing his friends over his own mother!” Bucky clasped his hands to his chest dramatically._

_I laughed again. “Oh come on, seriously? She can’t have been that bad. Anyway, isn’t Becca still there?”_

_Bucky turned toward him, gasping. “No one can fill the dark, gaping wound I left in my mother’s heart. Not even Rebecca Barnes.”_

_The sun was lower now, burning gold through the trees, casting out shadows before us on the ground, long and distorted. We walked for a long time. The air was musty with far-off campfires, sharp with cinnamon and fallen leaves. There was no noise but the crunch of our shoes on the gravel path, and Bucky’s laugh, bright and unhindered._

Steve slammed another empty glass down. He felt raw, bruised. Maybe he should be talking to someone about this. He could call up that V.A. psychiatrist Sam sent him the number of, get some professional help. The last time things got this bad…. 

But he couldn’t be benched, he’d go even crazier sitting at a desk all day. 

Steve told himself he’d wait a week. One week and then if the weird visions didn’t go away, he’d go talk to someone. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S_.

The rain-slicked street looked silver in the moonlight. Peter stood at the edge of a sidewalk looking out at the London skyline. He felt dazed, half dreaming, not quite sure where he was. There was a woman next to him, small with long, red hair. 

She was singing. 

When she started walking down the sidewalk, Peter followed her without question, feeling like he was walking through syrup, slow and lethargic. The woman had dots of red splattered across her nose and cheeks, like freckles. 

Strange. Freckles weren't usually red. 

She was still singing and Peter found himself humming along, though he didn’t recognize the song. He wasn't even sure it was in English. 

And so he walked, side by side with a woman he didn’t recognize, mumbling along to a song he didn’t know, down a moonlit street he had never been on before, feeling completely at home. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda couldn’t smell anything but the coppery tang of blood. 

She kept her eyes open so wide they were starting to water, but she couldn’t close them. If she closed them she knew — _knew —_ she would see blood stained, silver hair. 

So she kept them open, unfocused, looking-but-not-seeing the road beneath her feet. 

There was someone else with her. She could hear his voice, humming along to the song. Song? Oh right, she was singing. A lullaby that her mother used to sing to her, back in Prague. Why was she singing?

It wasn’t the police officer. This man was smaller and had brown hair. He wore a long hospital gown. She felt comforted by his presence. 

“Are you okay?” The man finally whispered after a few long minutes. 

She didn’t look at him. “I don’t think so. Are you?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“I’m sorry. I hope you are okay soon.” 

“Me too.” Said the man. When Wanda finally looked over at him, he was gone. She went back to singing. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

Peter woke up slowly, to the sound of the woman singing. It was lovely. He wished he knew the words. He opened his eyes. He wanted to ask her to teach him how to sing it, but instead found himself staring at a blank, white ceiling. 

“Oh, thank Jesus, Pete. Are you okay, baby? How do you feel?” A voice said, grabbing his hand. 

The voice belonged to Aunt May. She was standing close to Peter and he blinked, struggling to bring her into focus. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hair was frizzy and messier than he’d ever seen it before. 

He looked around. The room he was in was bare and sterile, white from floor to ceiling. The singing had been replaced by a beeping monitor. A hospital room, then. He frowned. Why had the singing girl left?

“Where did she go?” He asked, his voice coming out weak and raspy. 

“Who?"

He cleared his throat and tried again, voice a little stronger. “The girl who was singing, where is she?” 

“Pete, what are you talking about? It’s only me here and I’m not really the sing-to-the-kid-in-a-coma-type girl.” Aunt May said. She looked concerned, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. “You must have been dreaming.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said distractedly as he laid back against the starchy pillows. He wished the girl had really been here. Her voice was nice. “Yeah, probably just a dream.” 

Aunt May pursed her lips. “Get some more sleep, the doctor said he would check up on you later tonight.” 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

“I’m not crazy.” Steve said, setting his duffel down by his desk. He sat down and faced Sam, who was fixing him with an inscrutable look. 

“Didn’t say you were.” Sam said at last. 

“Yeah, but— “ Steve paused as another cop walked between them. He raised his hand in greeting and waited until the man was safely out of earshot before continuing. “You didn’t believe me either, not about the woman, the building, the stash, none of it.”

Sam didn’t say anything in response to this. Steve turned back toward his desk and pulled his laptop out of his bag. 

“Maybe you’ll believe a camera. Building across the street has got a CTV.” he explained as he typed, pulling up the footage he found last night. 

He hadn’t slept, not after the night-before’s Bucky dream. But the all-nighter would be worth it if there was something on that video footage. Something that would explain what’s going on with him. Something that would prove he wasn’t crazy. 

“I requisitioned the file. This camera’s got a perfect view of the front and back of the place. If anybody pulled a body out of there, we’ll see it.” 

Sam pushed off his desk and came around to stand behind Steve. Steve got the video pulled up and stopped it around 5 am. 

“All right, here it is.” Steve said, starting the video. 

They watched the narrow street, footage dark and grainy. There was a short freeze, as though the network cut out, and then — 

“What the fuck?” Steve said, staring at the video. 

The time stamp at the bottom now read 7:30 am. A whole two hours. Gone. He rewinded the video, back to 5 am, and pressed play again. Same thing. Dark and grainy, a freeze, and then a 2 hour time jump. 

“This has been erased. Somebody erased two hours of this.” Steve said, fingers frozen on the keyboard.

Sam leaned closer with a furrowed brow, watching as the time stamp jumped again. 5 am to 7:30. 

“Okay, that is weird.” Sam said, still staring at the computer screen. 

“Man, something is going on here.” Steve said, looking back at him. 

“That’s definitely a flag on the play, I’ll give you that. No one erases two hours of CTV without a damn good reason.” 

Steve shook his head, turning back towards the video. He looped the footage and they watched in silence as the numbers jumped. 5 am to 7:30. 5 am to 7:30. Over and over again until — 

“Hey, yo. Check out our man, here.” Sam said, pointing at a lone figure in the background of the 7:30 am video. 

Steve squinted. The figure was small and nearly blended in with his surroundings. But when the video jumped back to 5:30, he was still there, walking up and down the hazy street. 

“He saw the whole thing.” 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

“This is what a normal, healthy brain looks like: ” Doctor Zola said, pointing to the MRI scan on the computer. “Two distinct, well-differentiated frontal lobes.” He pressed a button and the screen changed, now showing a different scan. This one was murkier, less defined. Peter knew that this one was his. 

“The problem begins here in the substantial alba of the frontal lobe.” He continued, indicating towards a section of Peter’s brain. “These two masses are growing into one another.” 

Aunt May leaned forward. She was picking at her left thumb, an anxious habit she’d picked up after Ben died. Peter hadn’t seen her do it in years. 

Doctor Zola paid her no attention, still staring at Peter. “It’s often misdiagnosed as acute encephalitis, but it’s a condition called UFLS: Undifferentiated Frontal Lobe Syndrome.”

“Acronyms are scary.” Peter whispered. 

He felt like he was in a dream. Any second now he’d wake up to Ned asking for him to help fix the TV, again. Or maybe it was MJ who was shaking him awake after he’d fallen asleep on his laptop during a marathon study session. Hell, he’d even take Aunt May calling for him to get up and get ready for school. 

He’d take anything over this living nightmare. 

“Yeah. I’ll be honest with you, Peter, is it?” Doctor Zola said. He looked over at Aunt May, as though to confirm Peter’s own name. As though Peter was too sick, too unstable to tell him his own name. He felt like screaming. 

“It’s not good.” Doctor Zola continued. “There is a procedure to treat UFLS, but it requires a very aggressive surgery where we go in and try to cut away the growth.”

“Aggressive?” Peter whispered. 

He couldn’t look away from the screen. He just kept staring at those two pictures side-by-side, one a perfectly healthy, normal brain. The other _his_. His brain was the bad example. His brain was the naughty brain all the brain-mothers told their brain-children not to hang out with, because _his_ brain was the bad influence. 

Jesus christ. He was losing it already.

“Unfortunately, the surgery is very expensive. It says here that you don’t have health insurance? Is that right?” Doctor Zola was asking Peter. 

“Oh, he can use mine.” Aunt May said. She looked pale and faint, like all it would take to blow her over would be a medium-sized gust of wind. 

“What happens if I don’t have the surgery?” Peter said. Aunt May gave him a sharp look. He ignored it. 

“Without the surgery, the tissue will continue to metastasize. Patients will begin to experience a deterioration of mental faculties. It’s common for them to experience very intense, very real hallucinations and synesthesia that precedes a loss of memory and, eventually, a complete occlusion of identity.” 

Doctor Zola kept saying “patients” as if he wasn’t talking about Peter. As if it was some poor, unfortunate, but otherwise anonymous third party who would become a walking, talking potato. But it wasn’t. It was Peter. 

At least this explained the woman in white. So much for _limbic resonance_. Peter felt like laughing. Then maybe crying. Then maybe screaming until he couldn’t anymore. Screaming until his vocal cords were shredded and his throat was scraped raw. 

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Aunt May said, resting a hand on his shoulder. She still looked pale and unfocused, and when Peter looked up at her, she didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“We should go.” Doctor Zola said, almost gently. 

Peter wished he wasn’t gentle. He wished May wasn’t so soft and out of focus. He wished they would leave. 

“Yeah, could you — ” he cleared his throat, “could I just be alone, for a second?” 

Aunt May hesitated, but nodded slightly and took her hand away. 

“I love you, Pete.” She said quietly when she reached the door. 

Peter didn’t respond. He turned his head and stared blankly out the window. The light outside was very strange. Something about it made the rain gleam silver and the street below seem unnatural, a mirage not quite of this world. He thought about atoms, molecules, things so small you couldn’t even see them.

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

The bar was deserted except for a couple of haggard old men and a blonde-haired bartender who sat on a stool at the end of the bar and scrolled through her phone, paying no attention to Clint’s attempts to flag her down. He wanted another glass of whiskey, but she refused to look up and he was too drunk to think about calling out to her. 

Two minutes passed, then five. Clint gave up and resigned himself to nursing the last few drops of the drink he had in front of him. 

The door opened. “Well, you look like shit.” 

It was Katie. She walked over to bar and plopped down in the seat next to Clint’s. He said nothing. 

She looked like she had just come from work, dressed in all black with the smell of booze still clinging to her faintly. She fixed him with a hard stare.

“Hello, Katie.” Clint said finally, still not looking at her. 

“Hi, Clint.” She said. “Wanna tell me why you’re day-drinking on a Wednesday morning, or am I just supposed to come to my own conclusions—”

“Did you know that he was in debt?” Clint interrupted, his words slightly slurred. 

Katie blinked, a look of confusion coming over her face. “Who?” 

“No, of course you didn’t, nobody did.” He let out a small, sardonic laugh. “I sure as fuck didn’t.”

“Who are you talking about, Clint?” Katie asked again, her voice gentler. 

“Dear Old Daddy, obviously. Who else could I be talking about? Even in death, he’s still a self-centered bastard. Every conversation’s gotta be about him.”

“Your dad was in debt?” 

“Not just _in debt_ , Katie-Kate,” Clint said, finally turning toward her, “the fucker was buried in it. Is. Is buried in it. Well, I guess 'was'. For me, it’s 'is'. I’m the fucker, now. He passed on the ‘fucker’ title. Lucky me.” 

“Clint, you’re not making any sense.” Katie said, her brow furrowed. "What are you saying?” 

“What I’m saying, Katie-Kate, is that Daddy Dearest’s last will and testament was one heaping pile of debt.” When she still looked confused, he sighed and turned away from her. “His debt passed over. It’s mine now. Got a note this morning.” 

He held up the crumpled piece of paper and she took it, smoothing it out on the bar top. She was quiet as she read it. She was still quiet after she finished reading. It was a long stretch of quiet before she finally spoke again. 

“We’re gonna figure this out, Clint. It’s gonna be okay.” 

He snorted and tossed the rest of his drink back. 

He almost spit it out. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Katie asked. 

“Nothing, nothing. It just….got warm.” He said. 

The drink had gotten warm. Hot, actually. And it had tasted exactly like Earl Grey tea. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda lifted the tea to her mouth with shaking hands. It was hot, too hot, but she could barely feel the burn as she sipped on it. She sat on the floor of her tiny flat, leaning against her bed. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, but it was better than the couch. It made her more aware. It reminded her where she was. 

She was in her tiny flat, on the third floor of her tiny building, clutching a mug in her hands and not thinking about blood-stained silver hair. 

It was still raining outside. Her nose tickled from the dust on the floor and she rubbed it with one hand. She should vacuum soon. The rain drummed on her high windows and the sun, shining through the glass, cast a pattern on the wall as if rivulets of water were streaming down it, ceiling to floor. 

She sat and watched the wall for a long time. Occasionally a car swooshed by outside. The sound would jar her back into her body and she would take a few moments to evaluate where she was. 

Tiny flat, tiny building, mug in her hands, not thinking about blood-stained silver hair. 

At last, when she couldn’t resist the weight of her eyelids any longer, she closed her eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

She dreamt of blood-stained silver hair. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S._

The man — Tony was pretty sure his name was Alex? — laughed into the curls at the nape of Tony’s neck as Tony fumbled the door open and they stumbled together into the wall, and then toward the bed, clothes dropping in their wake. Alex smelled like expensive cologne and champagne and Tony distantly remembered that he was the son of a very wealthy perfume industry CEO, so of course he smelled good. 

Tony crowded up behind Alex at the edge of the bed, splaying his hands over his hips. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot.” Alex mumbled low, craning his head back for Tony to hear him, and Tony laughed and kicked his knees out from under him. 

“I know.” Tony whispered back. 

It was a clumsy, sideways tumble into bed, both of them grabbing greedy handfuls of the other. Tony’s pants still dangled from one ankle, but it didn’t matter because Alex was fisting the hair at the top of his head just the way he liked and licking a strip up Tony’s neck. 

His hands started traveling south on instinct, and Alex fell back against the pillows at the top of Tony’s bed. He took advantage of the angle to kiss up the column of Alex’s throat, the hollow at his collarbone, the knot of his Adam’s apple. He licked and sucked his way back to Alex’s mouth, kissing him once more, gently, then deeply, long and slow and heated. He felt Alex’s body shift beneath his, opening up. 

Alex slid his hands down to palm at Tony’s ass as he kissed him. A sound tore itself from Tony's throat and he ground into Alex, kissing him deep into the mattress, riding a continuous wave of the other man’s body. 

He felt Alex’s thighs move around him, heels pressing into his back. When Tony broke off to look at him, the intention was clear on his face. 

“You sure?” Tony panted. 

Alex pushed his hips up in response, and they both groaned. 

Alex reached over and fumbled blindly in the bedside drawer before finding what he was looking for — a condom and a small bottle of lube. Tony grabbed them, putting the condom off to the side and opening up the bottle of lube. 

Alex’s head fell back onto the pillow and he closed his eyes, letting Tony take over. 

Afterward, they laid together, propped up by the pillows. Tony tilted his head back, feeling strung out and satisfyingly sore. A trickle of sweat dripped down the side of his head. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

Peter woke up from a nap sweating. He wiped his forehead and sat up, fanning himself. There was a nurse in the corner of his room and he turned towards her. 

“Hey, is there any way you could turn up the air conditioning in here? I’m really hot.” 

She didn’t respond. 

Peter wondered if overheating was a side effect of brain tumors.

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S._

“Well, I’m just saying, are we going have to get an NDA from this guy? I mean, you don’t even remember who his father is.” Pepper said. 

“And _I’m_ just saying you don’t have to worry about it. Yeah? You always worry so much. Everything is going to be fine.” 

“I swear to God Tony — “

“You don’t have to swear to anything, I just said everything is going to — “

“— if I wake up to your face on Cosmopolitan tomorrow I’m going to — “

“ — be fine.” 

“— lose my mind.” 

They stopped walking, Pepper turning around to face him. She looked exhausted and Tony felt a twinge of remorse. He knew he wasn’t easy to handle. But he also knew he was the reason she could afford coffee and a therapist. It probably evened out in the end

“Look, Pep, I get that you’re worried.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m telling you that you’ve got no reason to be. Cosmopolitan is on lock down and Chanel Jr. isn’t gonna blab, especially not after what I did to his mouth — “

“Oh, Jesus, Tony.” Pepper sighed, rubbing her temple. 

“Well, now that that’s settled — ” Tony said, clapping his hands together.

“It is definitely not settled."

“—I’m famished. What do you say we go get some food and talk about something other than my, frankly impressive, sex-capades? I’m not sure about you, but I’m weirdly craving….hamburgers?” 

Pepper just shook her head and continued walking down the hall. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

“Thanks for coming with me.” Clint said. He took another bite of his burger and almost moaned with satisfaction. 

“You mean, ’thanks for coming with me to a burger place, even though you’re a vegetarian and this goes against everything you stand for’? Yeah, no problem, Clint. I'll always put my morals on hold for an old friend.” Katie responded. 

She was sat back in her chair rather resolutely, arms crossed and face hard. When the poor, teenaged waiter had asked if she wanted anything, Clint had been a little afraid he would get a punch to the face. Thankfully, Katie had just ordered him away with affected, sarcastic delicacy. No fists. This time. 

“But, Clint,” She was more serious now, “have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do? I mean, I have some ideas but….”

Her voice faded into the background as Clint heard the clink of silverware and turned around to see who else was eating in a nearly deserted diner at 2 am. He almost knocked over his ketchup. 

The woman was breathtaking. 

Her hair was all Clint saw at first — red and vibrant, cut into a short, curly bob that brushed the sides of her jaw when she turned her head. Her gaze met Clint’s and suddenly it became very hard to think at all. Her eyes were green and luminous in the dim lighting of the diner and they seemed to bore into him, as though she were trying to uncover the most hidden parts of him. 

He felt inclined to let her. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

The man seemed lost, out of place. 

Standing in the middle of the expensive restaurant Natasha was in, hands in pockets, he was like a strange glitch of wrongness in the sea of pristine, wealthy monotony. He certainly wasn’t dressed for the mahogany tables and extravagant chandeliers. His jeans and t-shirt looked ridiculous next to the other patrons' Hickey-Freeman suits and challis skirts. 

And yet, when he stared at her, she felt utterly _right_. Comforted and safe and known. 

She blinked and the man disappeared

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S._

Tony was exhausted after last night and was ill-prepared to do anything but sleep today. It was all he could do to stay awake during his morning meetings, and after the last one had ended he went straight back to his room, took a sleeping pill and went to bed. 

The sleeping pill was an extraneous gesture; he didn’t need it, but the mere possibility of another weird dream or creepy vision, was too unpleasant to even consider. 

So, he slept soundly, more soundly than he should have, and the day slipped by easily. It was almost dark when somewhere, through the great depths of his subconscious, he became aware that someone was knocking on his door. 

It was Pepper. He must have looked terrible, because she raised an eyebrow when he opened the door. 

“It’s 7 pm, Tony, were you asleep?” 

Tony blinked. “Uh….I’m gonna go with… no?” 

The shades were down and the room was dark. It left him feeling hazy, disoriented. He stood in the doorway for a few beats, blinking stupidly, before clearing his throat and opening the door wider. 

“Well, come on in, I guess.”

She did, and closed the door behind her. He sat down on the side of his unmade bed, feet bare and collar loose. It was the most disheveled he’d ever looked in front of her. She looked at him for a long time, her gaze hard and calculating. 

“Are you sick?” She said, finally.

She crossed her arms and her gold bracelet gleamed in the dark. Tony swallowed. His brain felt sluggish and unresponsive. Maybe he _was_ sick. 

“I don’t think so?” He finally said, lamely. 

She pursed her lips. “You’re not acting like yourself, Tony. You haven’t been not since….” 

He interrupted. “Not since Afghanistan, you mean? Not since I was _kidnapped_. Golly gee, Pep, I wonder why.” Now Tony felt mad. It helped. The anger cleared his mind and sharpened his senses.

“No, keep going, please. Tell me all about how _distracted_ I’ve been lately. We could toss some theories around about why that might be, here I’ll start: _maybe it’s because I got fucking kidnapped and tortured._ ” 

It wasn’t completely a lie. It also wasn’t completely the truth. Afghanistan was still raw, he still woke up sweating and hyperventilating from nightmares. But it was manageable. On the nights he couldn’t sleep, he would go to the workshop, work on one of the cars or play around with some code. 

But something else happening, too. He couldn’t tell what. He felt run-down, sick all the time. Going up stairs had never left him out of breath before. Sometimes, his heart — or the metal thing inside of it — felt like it skipped a beat for no apparent reason. He was only 26 for christ’s sake. Maybe he should have JARVIS run a diagnostics test on him. 

And then there was the visions. Not just visions, but feelings too. Emotions and sensations that were not his own. It was like he was getting glimpses into someone else’s mind at random. But who? And why?

Pepper was saying something. “—and I just feel like you’re closing yourself off to us. Rhodey’s worried too, Tony. Tony? Are you even listening to me, right now?” 

“Sorry, what?” 

Her mouth hardened into a line and all the anger drained out of him.

"Pep, sorry, I’m sorry okay? I've just been… I don’t know, feeling off? It’s nothing to worry about, it’s probably a diet thing, think I should cut out dairy?” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I am sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.” 

“I don’t want you to….Tony, that’s not what I’m saying. I just….I want you to know that you can talk to me. Always. About anything that’s happening.” 

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I know that. Of course I know that. Now get out of here, I’m still trying to make up for last night with Chanel Jr.. Beauty’s gotta have her beauty sleep.” 

Pepper rolled her eyes but left the room without complaint, closing the door softly behind her. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

It was still dark when Steve woke up for work. He hadn’t slept much the night before, his mind working over time trying to figure out what they were missing with that CTV footage, but the sleep he had gotten had been blissfully Bucky-free. 

The persistent headache that had been hounding him for the past few days was still there, though, and standing up made his vision go spotty for a few seconds. He groaned and stood there, swaying, before padding over to the bathroom. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda woke up, sore and uncomfortable from sleeping on the floor all night. She felt marginally better though, more alert and conscious. She checked her phone and swore. She had been asleep for almost 16 hours. 

She had to start making a plan. Now that she had slept off the shock, she felt restless and angry. 

The sadness, the loss, hadn’t come yet. She knew it would. 

But first, the bathroom. She still had flecks of blood — _Pietro’s blood_ — on her face, and it was starting to get itchy. Also, she had to pee like a fucking racehorse. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

As Steve peed, he checked the medicine cabinet for some Advil. He shook out two and swallowed them with water from the sink’s tap. He washed his hands and took out the shaving cream and razor. 

As he shaved, he thought about the girl he had seen in the church a few nights ago. She had seemed so scared. Part of him ached to find out whether or not she was okay. He wondered where she was now, what she was doing. 

He pointedly did _not_ wonder about suddenly being in an apartment in London, watching someone get shot in the back of the head. He didn’t wonder about it because it was impossible. He had not been in London, he had been in Boston, in an abandoned church. 

_Where he had had a vision of a woman shooting herself._

He cupped some water in his hands and dunked his face into it, washing off the leftover shaving cream.

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda cupped some water in her hands and dunked her face into it, trying to scrub the dried blood off. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

Steve looked back up the mirror and nearly screamed.

His reflection showed the red-headed girl from the church, staring at him with a perplexed expression on her face. She looked disoriented and tired, as though she had just woken up. 

No, that’s not right. 

He _knew_ she felt disoriented and tired because _he_ could feel it. 

It was strange. The feelings were imposters, coming not from his own body, but from someone else’s. They felt foreign and ill-fitting, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit where you were trying to jam it. 

He blinked and found himself staring at his own face again. The feelings were gone.

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda reached forward, as though to try and touch the man’s face through her mirror. But it was too late, he was gone. She frowned. She definitely wasn’t high anymore, it had been almost two days since she had last taken anything, and her head felt clearer than it had in months. 

There was no reasonable explanation for why she was still seeing strange men in her mirrors. 

She shook her head. That’s a problem for another time. Now, she needed a plan. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

Peter woke up alone for the first time since arriving to the hospital. He didn’t even pause to think, just sprung to his feet and went straight over to the computer. He just needed to find out something, anything about his….condition. After that first talk with Doctor Zola, no one had told him anything more about what was happening to him and he felt starved for information. 

He shook the mouse on the computer and it pulled up his brain scan. It still looked the same as the first time he'd seen it, but it must have been an old picture. He was about to exit out of the window, when the door suddenly swung open. 

“Time for your medicine.” The nurse said. Her false, cheery tone grated at his nerves. 

He whirled around and tried not to feel like a school kid getting caught cheating. “Y’know any other time I’d be all for swallowing a bunch of gross pills, but I’ve actually decided to check out, so if you could just send the bill to —“ 

“I can’t do that, sweetie.” 

Peter’s heart sunk. He didn’t really know what he’d been expecting, but an immediate, hard no wasn’t it. They couldn’t just keep him locked up like this, could they? 

“What do you mean?” He asked faintly. 

“Doctor Zola’s the only one who can release you.” She had sickeningly sympathetic expression as she tried to hand him the paper cup of pills again.

Peter wanted to punch it off her face. He was 26 for fuck’s sake, not some misbehaving kindergartener. 

“You can’t just keep me here against my will.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry sweetie, but we can. Doctor Zola and your aunt signed the papers.”

Peter felt like he’d just gotten punched in the stomach. “What?” 

“It’s for your own safety, Peter. As well as the people around you.” She set the pills on his bedside table resolutely and fixed him with a hard stare. “Take your medicine.” 

The door closed behind her and Peter heard a soft click as the lock slid into place. 

He was locked in. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

Steve sat down on one of the plastic chairs they have in the briefing room and drummed his fingers on the table. It had been a while since they’d all been called in for a briefing. Usually it only happens for big cases. Sam sat down on the seat next to his. 

“I’ll have you know, I’ve had a few psychic experiences myself.” Sam said. 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Absinthe dreams don’t count as psychic phenomenon.”

“Hey, I’m bein’ serious. This one time, I watched the music video for Taylor Swift’s song ‘Love Story’ and the next day, guess what comes on the radio? _Love Story by Taylor Swift_.” 

“Oh yeah, real creepy stuff man.” Steve said in mock severity, nodding his hand and patting Sam’s arm. 

Sam opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by Captain Hill walking in. 

“Okay, boys and girls, settle down.” She said, pulling down the projector screen at the front of the room. “Alright, everybody, come on! Come on in guys, let’s move it!”

She waited until everyone was seated and quiet before continuing. “We have a visitor from our friends in Washington, so eyes and ears.” 

A man walked through the door and raised a sheepish hand in greeting. He was older and wore a sharp suit. Steve had always thought going into the FBI or CIA would be way too stressful and the agent’s dramatically receding hairline definitely supported his hypothesis. Poor guy. 

“Hello everyone, I’m Agent Coulson.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and set a heavy folder down on the podium. “I know a lot of you guys have seen me lurking about, and it’s not because I’m a butterscotch-bacon donut addict.” 

There were a few cheers and whoops for that. A couple of guys in the back held up their donuts in a show of solidarity. 

Coulson waited until the noise died down, a small smile on his face. “The truth is, I head up a federal task force for Homeland Security, which basically means I’m here to help you guys catch the bad guys.”

He clicked the mouse on the computer and an image of a man appeared on the projector. It looked like a photo taken and enhanced from an airport’s CTV camera. The man in it had dark skin, a bald head, and a black eyepatch over one of his eyes. 

Steve felt the breath leave his lungs. 

“This guy is one of the worst.” Coulson continued. “Nick Fury. Goes by a lot of different names, Nick Barnett, most recently.” 

Sam was looking at him with concern. “What is it?” He whispered. 

“I think….I think I know that guy.” Steve whispered back. 

“How?” 

Steve glanced back at the image. Fury seemed stared back at him. The same stare he had fixed Steve with over the woman in white’s shoulder in his dream.

“I’m not sure.” He lied. 

Coulson was still talking. “If he’s still here in your city, we need to know, and we need to know, now.”

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

Peter couldn’t sit still. He felt like a caged tiger at the zoo, pacing around his hospital room. There was one window in his room and he looked out of it now, through the blinds. All he saw was the empty parking lot below. 

“Peter.” A voice said. 

Peter whirled around. He hadn’t heard the door open, and yet there was a man standing in the middle of his room. He had dark skin, a bald head, and a black eye patch over one eye. Peter’s heart pounded. It was the same man from the convention center. 

“Peter, listen to me. You have to get out of here.” The man said. 

“H-How did you get in here?” Peter stuttered, backing up against the window. 

The man looked vaguely annoyed by the question. “If I tried to explain it, you wouldn’t believe me.” He seemed impatient. 

“You….You were at the convention center.” 

“I was. I came looking for you.” 

Peter closed his eyes tightly. There was no way this was actually happening. Doctor Zola had said something about hallucinations, right? They must already be starting. 

“This isn’t real. You aren’t really here.” He said. But when he opened his eyes again, the man was still staring at him. 

“Peter, Doctor Zola’s operation is designed to lobotomize you, part of you already knows this is true. We all know when people are lying to us, we just don’t trust those instincts.” 

Peter tried blinking the hallucination away again. The man didn’t budge. 

“The minute Zola entered this room, a voice inside of you told you to run. Right now, you need to listen to that voice. If you don’t want to become a brain-dead potato, you must find a way out of here. And quickly.” 

There was a knock at the door. The man disappeared. 

Peter took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart.

“Hello?” 

Another knock. 

“Hello? Who is it?” He tried again. 

A third knock. 

“Oh, my god.” Peter whispered. “I’m losing my mind.” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

The knocking continued as Wanda shoved some clothes and a toothbrush into her bag. There was a brief pause, and then a loud bang, as if something heavy had been slammed into her door. 

She glanced behind her, breath catching her throat, but the door held steady. 

_For now,_ she thought. 

She wasn’t sure who might be at the door, but she seriously doubted it was a friendly neighbor coming to ask if she had any sugar. Nobody knew where she lived. Well, nobody except for Pietro. 

Pietro wasn’t at her door, though. 

There was another loud bang and it jarred her back to the present and she threw another sweater into the bag. There was another brief pause and then the sound of a lock turning. She whirled around and watched in horror as the silver deadbolt slowly slid open. 

Running to the bathroom as quietly as she could, she pressed her hand tightly against her mouth, trying to stifle her gasping breath. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she hoped it wasn’t as loud as it sounded. She pressed herself flat against the wall, and held her breath as the door creaked open and heavy footsteps entered her apartment. 

She waited until the man was well into her living room before slipping out of the bathroom and running on tip toes out of the open front door. She ran as quietly as she could until she reached the end of the hall and then she broke out into a full sprint, flying down the stairs. She could hear footsteps pounding on the floor behind her.

She didn’t look back. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

Steve stood in front of the door for a full five minutes before finally mustering up the courage to knock. The door opened immediately. 

“Steve!” Sharon said in surprise. She stared at him for a moment before seemingly coming back to herself and opening the door wider. “Uh, sorry, yeah come in. I, uh, I wasn’t expecting you.” 

Steve grimaced and walked through the door. Her apartment looked exactly the same. 

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I know I should’ve called. I just….I needed to talk to you.” 

Sharon’s expression softened and she sat down on the couch, indicating that Steve sit next to her. He leaned against the arm rest instead. 

“Don’t worry about it, you can always talk to me. What’s up?” 

Steve took a deep breath and wondered, for the hundredth time, if he made the right call coming her. She could so easily report him. Call him in for a psych eval. Hell, she could get him kicked off the force. 

“Uh, this isn’t easy to say,” he started, “but I….I think you might be the only one who’s gonna believe me.” 

She looked up at him, brow furrowed. He took another deep breath. 

“Something’s going on, Sharon, and I think it’s got something to do with Bucky.” 

Sharon let out a long breath and rubbed her hand over her eyes. 

“Oh, Steve….” She said, finally. “Look, what happened to Bucky was a tragedy, but Steve, that was over ten years ago. You gotta let it go.” 

“I know,” Steve said, “I know, but I got a gut feeling about this. Something’s goin’ on here.” 

Sharon shook her head, face deadly serious. “Steve, if you bring Bucky up, if you start talking about him again, they’ll drag you into psych evaluation so fast it’ll leave your head spinning. They’ll run you right off the force, Steve.”

She stood up, walking over to stand in front of him and took his hand. “Let him go, Stevie. _Please_.” 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S._

The phone was ringing and Peter was ignoring it. He knew it was in his head. So, he wasn't gonna answer it. He rolled over to face the other wall. The phone kept ringing.

After four or five rings, he finally flipped back over and stared at it, hard, as if he could force it to reveal its deception by sheer willpower alone. It doesn’t work. So, he tried a different approach. Science is all about using different approaches to test theories, right? 

With a shaking hand, Peter reached over and picked up the phone. 

“Hello?” He spoke softly into it. 

“Oh my god, it worked!” Ned’s voice answered back. 

Peter choked back an astonished laugh. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d heard his friend’s voice. 

“Ned?”

“I can’t believe this worked. We knew they had you on 18, so I’ve been trying every room.” 

Peter clutched the phone to his ear and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Is MJ with you?” He asked. 

“No,” Ned said, “she’s back at our apartment, trying to pull up stuff on this 'Doctor Zola.’ He’s the one that signed your papers, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah I think he convinced Aunt May to….wait, where are you?”

“I’m here in the hospital. They wouldn’t let us see you. It’s crazy, Peter, there’s three security guys like guarding your room. This is some seriously weird Area 51 shit.” 

Peter laughed wetly. “Yeah, tell me about it. I feel like I’ve been labeled ‘Patient Zero’ in some crazy zombie movie.” He sniffled and wiped his nose again. 

There was a pause on the phone before Ned spoke again, in a softer voice this time. “Are you okay, Peter?” 

Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. An image of the man with the eye patch flashed behind his eyelids. 

“I don’t know, Ned.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think….I think I’m going insane. Crazy things have been happening.” 

“What things?” 

“I don’t know, uh, I’ve been hearing things? And like feeling things? Emotions that aren’t coming from me, kinda like I’m tapping into someone else’s brain? Ned, I feel like I’m in an episode of Star Trek, I don’t….I don’t know what’s going on.” Peter whispered, voice cracking slightly at the end. 

Ned’s reply was quick. “There’s something going on, Peter. We don’t know what it is yet, but MJ’s got some theories. Just hold tight and trust us, okay? We’re gonna get you out of there, I promise.” 

“But…what if Doctor Zola’s right? He said that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a hallucination and reality and Ned, I saw the guy from my dream, the one that I told you about? He was at the convention center after my presentation and then later he was in my —” 

Ned cut him off. “Scary looking bald dude? With a black eyepatch?” 

“How did you….did I tell you that?” Peter asked, heart pounding. 

“Peter, the convention center had a CTV camera. We pulled footage from the night of your presentation and he was there. Cameras don’t hallucinate and that guy was staring right at you.” 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S._

Steve was back at the bar. He poured himself another whiskey and plopped three ice cubes into it, swirled them around hard and tossed the drink back. 

“Another one?” The bartender asked and Steve nodded, pushing his glass towards him. 

The door to the bar opened and a man walked in, sitting down at a table behind Steve. Steve glanced up at the blank tv attached to the top of the bar and felt his heart leap into his throat. In the screen’s reflection, he could see that the man had dark-skin and a black eye patch covering one eye. 

Steve waited for a few moments before slowly turning his head to try and glimpse Nick Fury out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked back, Fury was staring right at him. 

“Hello.” He said. 

Steve got up slowly, and slid into the booth across from him. 

“My name’s Nick Fury."

“I know who you are.”

Fury shook his head. “You know what they told you, and you know what your senses are telling you. The question is, Steve, which of the two are you going to trust?” 

“How do you know my name?” 

“She told me.” Said Fury, simply. 

Steve ground his teeth together. “Who did?” He pressed. He was getting tired of the cryptic answers routine. 

He knew what he _should_ be doing. He should be bringing Fury in. He was still a wanted terrorist, no matter what Steve’s _senses_ may or may not be telling him. But….some part of him, the part that was desperate for answers, told him to wait. Wait and see if Fury could offer up some sort of explanation for everything was happening to him. 

“Carol. The woman that gave birth to you, just before she took her own life.” 

Steve leaned forward, eyes wide. “She shot herself….” He whispered. “How did you know that?” 

Fury didn’t answer. “We all experience many births and deaths throughout our lives, but only a select few know what it means to be reborn a Sensate.”

“A what?” 

Again, Fury didn’t answer his question. “You have a migraine. You’ve had it since you saw her. It will last for several more days. But, that’s just the beginning. You will start to feel strange things, snow in the middle of the summer, rain when there isn’t a cloud in the sky. You’ll feel anger and joy and pain and pleasure, without any reason.” 

Steve gaped at him. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be another hallucination. 

“Excuse me!” Steve called out to the bartender, pointing at Fury. “Can you see this guy?” 

“I don’t have much time, Steve.” Fury said. “There’s a plane leaving in an hour and I have to be on it.”

“No—you’re not goin’ anywhere, you—“

Fury cut him off, “There is a boy in New York, Peter Parker, he needs your help. Just like Bucky Barnes needed your help.” 

Bucky’s name caught him off guard and all Steve could do was watch, open-mouthed, as the most wanted man in Boston stood up and started walking towards the door. How could he possibly know about Bucky? His mind spun with unanswered questions and he jumped to his feet right as the door closed behind Fury. 

He raced out to the parking lot, just in time to see a black sedan pull out. Jumping in his own car, he jammed the keys into the ignition and peeled out quickly, tires squealing. 

He wasn’t too far behind Fury’s car and he followed it into a narrow alleyway. Pressing the gas pedal down as far as it could go, he pushed closer to the back end of the black car, and bumped it, throwing it off course a little. 

“Don’t do this, Steve.” Said Fury, his voice coming from Steve’s passenger seat. 

Steve almost lost control of the car. “What the….fuck!” He yelled as he whipped his head to the side and found himself staring directly, impossibly, at Nick Fury, sitting in his passenger seat. 

“You’ve spent your life trying to understand what happened to you, what happened to Bucky. If you don’t let me go, you might never find out.”

“Oh my god, I’m losing my mind.”

“No,” Fury whispered, leaning forward, “it’s just expanding.” 

When Steve turned his head to look at him again, Fury was gone. He let out a cry of frustration and slammed on the gas, putting all of his force behind ramming the back of Fury’s car. He closed his eyes on impact and when he opened them again, he was sitting in the passenger side of a car he didn’t recognize, Fury sitting on his left. 

Fury laughed. “Well done, Steve” 

Steve looked around wildly, hands reaching out to stabilize himself. He could feel the leather of the seats beneath his palms, the seatbelt around his chest, how was that _possible?_

“Yes, the connection flows both ways, which then raises the question: if you’re here,” Fury turned to look at him, “who’s driving back there?” 

Steve whirled around to look at his car and suddenly he was behind the wheel again, staring at the back of Fury’s sedan. He swerved sharply, grasping at the wheel and trying to get the car under control again. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants. 

There was a sharp corner coming up and as Fury’s car turned, Steve slammed on the gas one more time, crashing head on into the side of Fury’s car. His tires screeched and the sound of scraping metal was deafening. 

And then everything went black. 


	3. Isolated Above, Connected Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With many of the Sensates' lives becoming more complicated, their newfound gift -- while still a mystery -- proves vital to survival.

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A_

Steve stood, drained the last of his beer, and closed the journal, setting it carefully down inside of his nightstand’s drawer. He shook the cramp from his hand; eleven pages written at great speed, the most he had written since the summer after it happened. 

He slid his feet back into his slippers, stood a little unsteadily and returned to his bedroom, pulling off his shirt, he debated if it was hot enough yet to sleep without sweatpants. After a few moments of deliberation, he decided the cold might help him sleep better — he’d heard something recently about temperature affecting nightmares — and shucked off the pants. 

Someone whistled, low and long. Steve whipped his head around, heart pounding, searching for the source of the noise. 

“Listen, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the view, but I am a little curious about how you managed to break into my top secret science lab? I had a real Doc Brown vibe going and, I don’t wanna say you ruined it but….” The man sitting on Steve’s bed said. 

He had a dark hair, a neat, trimmed beard and wore a soft-looking Metallica t-shirt that had several, what appeared to be grease stains on it. He was looking at Steve expectantly, eyebrows slightly raised. 

“Uh,” Steve said, intelligently. His heart was still pounding and he was having a hard time coming up with an adequate response to the man that had apparently broken in to his apartment and was now accusing him of breaking in to his….

Lab? 

Yes. He was now standing in a lab. The floor was hard and cold under his bare feet and he could smell the slight tang of metal. A robot with a paper dunce cap on its head whirred an angry claw at Steve. Steve blinked at it. 

“Look, it’s been a really long day, like….Eugene O’Neil long,” the man with the beard was saying, "so unless you’re planning to strip off the tidy-whitties too, can you get out of my lab? I'll….sue you or something tomorrow.” 

Steve opened his mouth to respond, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was planning on saying (he was somehow in this man’s private lab) but before he could, the lab disappeared, the man along with it. 

Steve stood alone in his room, blinking at the spot on his bed the man had occupied a second ago. There wasn’t even an indent where he had sat. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A_

Tony blinked at the spot where the blond man was standing a second ago. He was completely gone. Poof, without a trace. Well, Tony mused, he had told him to leave. Albeit, he wasn't expecting him to pull an invisibility cloak out of his ass, but be careful what you wish for. 

If this had been a one time occurrence, Tony wouldn’t have been too worried. Too much coffee, too little sleep, too many drinks, too much….other stuff, all well known causes of some mild hallucinations. But Tony was well-rested as he gets. He had only had two cups of coffee in the morning, and Rhodey had found his vodka stash again, so he was (regrettably) sober. 

And this wasn’t the only hallucination he’d seen recently. 

Just the other night, he had rolled over in bed and could’ve sworn there was a woman with short red hair laying next to him. But one second later, poof. Just like the blond man. 

He cursed under his breath. It was time. He had been putting it off for way too long and if there was something actually wrong with him….he should find out sooner rather than later. 

Clearing his throat, he called out, “Hey JARVIS?” 

“Yes, sir?” Was the disembodied reply. 

“Uh, run a health scan on me, will you? Look for anything funky in the amygdala and hippocampus regions.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

It was a few seconds before JARVIS said anything and Tony tapped his fingers against his leg impatiently. 

“There was no unusual activity in the brain, sir.” 

Tony let out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly. 

“But, I am detecting an unusual amount of palladium in your blood.” 

Tony opened his eyes. “Palladium? Where from?” 

“It appears to be the result of a chemical decay reaction in your arc reactor, sir. It’s coming from your heart.” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

The night was eerily warm. Wanda stumbled along the bridge, heart still pounding. She checked behind her one more time, making sure she wasn’t being followed. There was no one there. And yet, Wanda still imagined she heard footsteps, matching time with hers. She imagined warm breath on her neck, a man’s cologne washing over her when the wind blew. But every time she checked, the bridge behind her was empty. 

A loud ringing interrupted her thoughts and she stopped, leaning up against the railing to open her bag. She rummaged around for her phone, but came up empty. She shifted so that the moonlight illuminated the bag and felt her stomach drop. 

There was no sign of her phone because she had taken the wrong bag. 

The one she held was filled with small bundles of Vlad’s drugs. 

The ringing had stopped. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

“Hello?” Bruce answered the call, setting down the beaker. 

“Hey, Bruce.” Betty said. 

“Oh hey, Betty, did you need something?” 

“Yeah, I had a question about the latest data entry but when I stopped by your room you weren’t there. Are you still at the lab?” 

“Oh, uh,” Bruce glanced at the clock. It was two in the morning. “Yeah, yeah I am. Guess time just slipped by, sorry about that. What did you want to ask, though? I have the computer right here.” 

He pressed the power button on the laptop to his right. 

“Oh, no don’t worry about it, Bruce, I’ll just take a look tomorrow.” Betty said, though she still sounded unsure. 

“Are you sure? It’s not a problem, really, I can just pull up the—“

“It’s fine.” She cut him off. “Really, not a big deal, I’ll check it out when I get into the lab. Speaking of…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m leaving now.” 

“Good boy. See you tomorrow, Bruce.” 

“Bye, Betty.” 

He hung up and frowned. She had sounded really weird. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said she sounded nervous. Bruce had never seen Betty Ross nervous before. He had assumed she just wasn’t capable of that negative of an emotion, but she'd sounded more serious than he’d ever heard her during that phone call. 

He had half a mind to pull up the data anyways, just to try and see what might be making her so nervous, but another glance at the clock and his own slightly shaky hands told him it was time to call it a night. 

He cleaned up his workspace, dumping out the flasks and beakers that were littered across the desk and doing a final gas line check. Last thing he needed was a fire in the middle of the night. Again, he thought, remembering the day they had received the first positive results from the serum. 

In the end, Betty had eventually convinced him to share the serum’s success with General Ross. And everything had turned out fine. Bruce still wasn’t really sure what had made him so nervous, some strange instinct had bubbled up to the surface every time he thought about sharing their results, but nothing bad had come of it. That still didn’t stop him from feeling on edge every time the General visited their lab. 

The hallway was long and dark and the shadows cast on the wall made it seem as though it stretched on forever. Bruce folded his lab coat under his arm and set off at a brisk pace. A low voice made him stop in his tracks. 

It came from one of the doors just ahead of him. He crept closer and saw that the door was left slightly ajar, a man’s voice floating through. He frowned. He was usually the last one out of the lab, and typically it was just him, Betty, and a handful of Ugandan interns, but the voice had an undeniably American accent. 

“….little more time, and it should be ready. I understand but—“ 

There was a long pause and, holding his breath, Bruce peered through the tiny crack into the room. 

General Ross paced back and forth, still in his uniform, shiny, black shoes clicking against the smooth tile. The room was otherwise empty. 

“Don’t you dare accuse me of undermining the importance of this!” Came Ross’s harsh whisper. “I know just as well as you, Pierce, what this serum would do for BPO. What….expansions we could create. But you want a formula that actually works, yes?” 

Another short pause. 

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Patience is a virtue, Pierce. It will be ready soon.” 

Sensing the phone call was over, Bruce hurried past the door, eyes averted. He turned General Ross’s words over in his head as he made his way back to his room. He had said something about a serum. The same serum that Betty and him were creating? He couldn’t think of anything else it would be. And what was ‘BPO’? Dread settled low in Bruce’s stomach and he walked faster down the hall. 

It was only when he was back in his room that he realized Ross’s hands were behind his back the entire time. He hadn’t seen an earpiece in his ear either. But if he wasn’t on the phone, who was he talking to?

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

Tony felt light-headed, the thrum of his pulse faint and far away, and he wondered if this is what it was going to feel like — the slow loss of life, seeping out into the atmosphere, essence spreading as thick as oil, creeping into the farthest reaches of the universe until you eventually drifted away. System failure. Fade too black. Nothingness.

He refocused on the computer, words jumping out sharp and clear. “Palladium: high toxicity when measured on a longer timeframe. Damages to the cellular level in the kidneys and liver.” Guess that explains why he’s felt like shit the past week. He snorted. Nothing in the article said anything about hallucinogenic effects, but Tony wouldn’t put it past his own mind to liven things up for the sake of dramatics. Although, what could be more dramatic than dying? 

Tony cleared his throat. It felt dry and raw, like it had just been scrubbed down with sand paper. 

“JARVIS, how long could a human body withstand repeated exposure to palladium?” 

“Just over fifteen months, sir.” 

He wondered if he was imagining the softness in Jarvis’s voice. 

Fifteen months. He had installed the updated version of the arc reactor (the one with the palladium plating) just over a year ago, which means he had….a little over two months left to live. 

Fuck. 

“Fuck!” He yelled, bringing his fist down on the table. 

Dum-E’s claw whirled in alarm. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

_We were down at the dock, bleary-eyed and puzzled._

_“What the hell is going on?” Peggy asked. “It’s not even light out.”_

_“I don’t know,” I said. “Sharon seemed upset.”_

_“About what?”_

_“She didn’t say.”_

_We stumbled down the rickety wooden stairs built into the side of the hill in partial darkness. A soft muffled cold, like a blanket of snow, pressed in around me and made me shiver, even though I’d pulled a coat and a sweatshirt on. The steps were littered with rocks and twigs, and the danger of stumbling was so great that I kept my eyes on my feet until the last step finally flattened and I glanced up._

_Shadow shapes solidified as Sharon, Gabe, Jacques, and Dum Dum — all standing there on the dock, staring at something on the ground. I couldn’t see past them, couldn’t see what is was they were looking at._

_“What is it?” I said. “Guys?”_

_Gabe was the only one to turn my way, and he just shook his head — a tiny, labored motion._

_“What’s going on?” Peggy said. There was finally a note of worry in her voice._

_I pushed between Gabe and Sharon, and rest of the dock finally became clear. A pile of folded clothes sat on the end, a piece of paper resting on top of them. The edge fluttered in the wind, lifting up to reveal a speckle of something dark and red staining the corner._

_I recognized the shoes._

_They were Bucky’s white tennis shoes. The jacket was familiar too. He had been wearing it at the party._

_We stood numb and silent on the dock as the earth ceased to turn. A terrible stillness held our six warm breathing bodies and the pile — unmoving inanimate thing — in the same unbreakable thrall._

_A few stubborn stars still peered down from a sky barely lighter than the jagged black branches of the trees. I thought, what a liar the sky is. Still and calm and clear, like everything was fine. It wasn’t fine, and really, nothing would be fine again._

_Steve woke with a gasp, heart pounding. He sat up and tried to breathe normally, but his chest felt sharp and tight. He pressed his fists into his eyes. Bucky stood behind his eyelids, the way he looked that night: hair wild, eyes lit up with joy, dressed in his white tennis shoes and jacket._

_Steve took another shuddering breath._

_Nothing would be fine again._

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

“Oh, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” 

Peter jerked upright from where he had been dozing on the hard, plastic chair they kept by his bed. It was supposed to be for visitors. He almost laughed. As if they’d allow him visitors. Aunt May had tried to come a few times, but he’d turned her away.

“It’s safer for you in the bed.” The nurse said. 

It was the same nurse every time. The one with the condescending tone. Peter almost felt bad for not knowing her name. And then he remembered that she was a psychopath trying to lobotomize him against his will. Look at that, guilt gone!

“There’s nothing safe about this place.” Peter said. 

The nurse sighed. “We are trying to help you. I know you cannot understand right now, but that’s because you are unwell.”

“How is this even legal?” 

She shook her head. “Peter, I need you to get back into your bed.” 

Peter didn’t move. “I can’t believe this is happening to me in the twenty-first century.” 

“Doctor Zola needs you on this medication—“ 

“This like kind of crazy witch-burning shit.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded a little hysterical, even to his own ears. 

“— twenty-four hours before your surgery.” The nurse kept going as if Peter had never spoken. She did that a lot. 

“Look, lady, I told you, I’m not taking any medication.” 

She sighed. “I’ve been instructed to use force, Peter, if you won’t cooperate.” 

She looked behind her and two large, burly men in scrubs stepped forward. Peter wanted to laugh. It felt like a scene straight out of a movie. He wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the men held up a pair of shackles and leered at him menacingly. 

“Okay, okay,” he held up his hands in mock surrender, “message received, you can call off Burt and Ernie.” 

He unwrapped himself from the chair and made his way over to the bed. The nurse handed him the little cup of pills and, with a slightly shaking hand, he popped them in his mouth, swallowing dry. The nurse looked pleased. Peter wondered how much force it would take to punch the smug look right off her face. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

“Sir, Pepper Potts is on her way down to the lab.” 

Tony looked up, and sure enough, he could see Pepper’s high heels coming down the stairs. He waved his hand and the holographic periodic table, arc reactor deconstruction, and palladium stats disappeared. 

“Sir, I really advise you tell Ms. P—“ 

“Mute.” Tony muttered, stopping JARVIS from saying anything more as Pepper pushed open the glass doors to his lab. 

“Is this a joke, Tony?” She said, walking in. “What are you thinking?” 

Her mouth was in a hard line and her fists were clenching and unclenching like she was actively holding herself back from punching someone. Tony assumed it was him. 

“Hey, I’m thinking I’m busy, and you’re….angry? About something?” He stood up, pushing the chair out of the way. 

“Did you donate our entire modern art collection to the, the— “

“Boy Scouts of America?” 

“Boy Scouts of America?!” Pepper was following him through the lab, deftly sidestepping his abandoned projects and early marks that were strewn across the floor. 

“It is a worthwhile organization, I didn’t personally transfer the crates, but basically yeah. And it’s not our collection, it’s my collection, no offense.”

“No, you know what? I think I’m actually entitled to say our collection, considering the time I put in — over ten years by the way — curating that.” 

Tony had finally stopped in front of the marble topped bar. He turned to face her and shrugged. “It’s a tax write-off, I needed that.”

She stopped too and crossed her arms. Definitely mad.

“You know, there’s only about eight-thousand and eleven things that I really need to talk to you about — “

“Dum-E. Hey. Stop spacin’ out.” He tapped the robot and it whirled its claw in response, creaking to life. “Butterfingers is already machining that part.” 

“The Stark Expo is a giant waste of time.” 

Tony grabbed a glass from behind the bar. “There’s nothin’ more important to me than the Expo, that’s my primary point of concern. I don’t know why you’re so worried.” 

“The Expo is your ego going crazy.” She scoffed. 

Tony pointedly ignored that comment and instead reached over to the wall of booze behind his bar, choosing a new bottle of twenty-five year old Glen McKenna some Secretary of State or Press or War or Something had given him. He poured it over the ice and took a small sip. 

“Wow, this is amazing, you wanna try some?” He said, offering the glass to Pepper. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” 

“What? C’mon, Pep, live a little.” 

“Stark Industries is in complete disarray — “

“Our stocks have never been higher!” 

“— do you understand that? Yes, from a managerial standpoint, but — “ 

“Seriously, you have got to try this drink.” 

“— my point is, we have already awarded to the anti-fracking people and to the Coral Reef Protection Agency, which was your idea by the way. Those people are already on payroll and you won’t make a decision —“

Tony slammed his drink down. “I don’t care about the liberal agenda anymore. It’s boring, boring. I’m giving you my boring face right now. You do it.” 

“I do what?” 

“Excellent idea, I just figured this out, you run the company. Pepper I need you to run the company.” 

Pepper was staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Yeah I’m trying to run the company — “

“Well stop trying to do it. I’m not asking you to try to do it, I’m asking you to — “

“— but you won’t give me what I need — “

“— I’m asking you to physically do it.” 

“— in order to do it.” 

“I need you to do it.”

“I am trying to do it!” 

“No, you’re not listening to me! I’m trying to make you CEO!” The words rung in the silence. Pepper’s jaw went slack. “Why won’t you let me?” 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

It was a week before any news came. Natasha had spent the past seven days trying to keep relentless busy, going from client to client, fancy dinner party to musty hotel room. Anything to keep herself from obsessively checking her phone. The upside was that she had made a significant amount of money in the past week. Enough that she didn’t need to stress over the next payment. 

The wait ended on the eighth day. She was dozing off while reading a sordid romance novel involving several vampires and a woman dying of cancer when the ringing of her phone brought her abruptly back to consciousness. In her scramble to grab it, she almost knocked it clean off the bed, but she managed to catch it just in time and answered it, holding it up to her ear breathlessly. 

“We have a lead.” The voice came immediately. 

Natasha stopped breathing all together. She wondered if she had heard wrong. 

“Her name is Sonya Petrovna. Her address is 23, Ulitsa Rubinshteyna.” There was a small click and voice hung up. 

Natasha stared at the phone in disbelief, her heart racing. Her first lead in five years. The phone felt heavy in her hands. She couldn’t help feeling like something irreversible had begun. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

Steve had been sitting out on the fire escape for about an hour, hoping that the cold might freeze away any remnants of his dream. The cold gnawed at his limbs despite the large winter coat he had bundled himself in, but he didn’t want to go back inside. He knew if he tried to fall asleep again, he would return to that same dock and that same horrible pile of clothes.

He sighed out a long breath and looked up at the sky. It was dark and foggy, angry-looking clouds stubbornly extinguishing any stars that tried to shine through the haziness. It was nothing like that night. And yet, it was. There was something in the air that was too still, too silent. He wished Sam were home. 

“I’m sorry.” A voice said. 

It came from right next to him. A woman with short red hair was sitting beside him on the metal steps. She wore only a silk bathrobe, but she didn’t seem at all bothered by the freezing air. 

“Who are you?” Steve asked. His voice came out weary. He supposed he was used to having random hallucinations by now. What a strange thing to be used to. 

“I’m Natasha.” The woman said. She had a thick, Russian accent. 

He nodded. “Steve. Why did you—“ he stopped and cleared his throat, “why did you tell me you were sorry.” 

Natasha frowned at him, her gaze calculating. “You’ve lost someone. Someone very dear to you. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.” She shrugged and turned to face the street. "And I’m sorry.” 

Steve blinked at her, dumbfounded. 

She continued. “I know how it feels to lose someone like that. It feels like… like a part of your heart, of your very soul, has been ripped out. And you stumble around day to day, trying desperately to fill it with something, but everything falls short. Because nothing can be as it was. Nothing is a substitute for them.” 

She spoke them as if they were simple, but there was a definite weight to her words. Without looking at him, she lifted one hand and placed it so lightly on the inside of his wrist that he barely felt it. He wondered how he felt it at all. How can you feel your own hallucination? 

“How….?” A small crease appeared between Steve’s eyebrows as he looked from Natasha’s hand back to her face. 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening to us. But,” she hesitated, finally turning back toward him, “sometimes I wish I could fall asleep and never wake up again. And I don’t know how, but I know you feel the same way. Being here, with you, or with any of the others….it helps, in a way. Misery loves company, right?” She let out a small laugh. 

Steve nodded. “I think…I think I know what you mean.” 

She gave him a small smile and turned back toward the street, gazing out at the view, her hand still on his wrist. It felt nice, comforting. 

“So,” he said, “who did you lose?” 

She turned towards him again, a surprised look on her face. 

“Oh, c’mon. No one talks like that unless they’ve experienced it first hand.” 

She swallowed. “My sister. I lost my sister.” Her jaw clenched. “But I haven’t given up searching. I will find her. If not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day.” 

Her words were soft but spoken with absolute certainty. Steve wished he could feel that same determination. 

“How can you have so much hope? You lost her so long ago, but you’ve never given up. How?” Steve asked. He had know idea how he knew when Natasha had lost her sister, but it was knowledge that went bone-deep, as though he had always known it. 

“Sometimes, the strength within isn’t a big fiery flame for all to see. Sometimes it’s just a tiny spark that only whispers softly. But a spark is all I need. It tells me she’s still out there, somewhere. All I need to do is find her. That is how I never give up.” 

The hand on his wrist slid off and when Steve looked over to Natasha, she was gone. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda’s pulse pounding in her ears was all she could hear. Her hands shook as she grabbed fistful after fistful of the mini plastic bags, the white powder inside faintly crackling. At last, she threw the last couple of baggies into the dark river below, the distant splash they made falling on faint ears. 

The decision to throw the drugs out was made quickly. When she opened the bag, panicked instinct had taken over, leading to her shoving handfuls of drugs over the railing. Hopefully there were no cameras here. She should’ve checked. 

The river murmured beneath her, disturbed water dissipating into a flat, still calmness. Just as she wanted to. Just as she had to. Praying she’d be able to do what her heart demanded of her.

**

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S.A._

The canal murmured beneath them, sluggish water flowing out to sea. 

Thor closed his eyes and hoped that the gentle babble would ease the pounding migraine he still had. It had been a persistent ache for almost four days now. Ever since the ballet performance. The woman in white had been a recurring theme in every nightmare, daydream, or weird hallucination he’d had since and he was seriously considering making the trip to Urgent Care. Just to make sure he didn’t have a brain tumor or something equally as life-threatening. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sif’s phone ringing. He opened his eyes again and sighed. So much for easing his headache. 

“What? Why?” Sif's surprised voice said. 

Thor turned around to face her. 

“Yeah….yeah, of course we’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hung up the phone, eyes wide. “That was the landlord. Apparently, your brother is at the apartment.” 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

Bruce couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation he’d overheard General Ross having. What was BPO and why did they need the serum? Who was Ross talking to? How were they talking if not over the phone? 

Sighing, he sat up and pulled the computer toward him. If he couldn’t sleep, the least he could do was try and figure out what BPO was. He typed it into the search bar and waited impatiently for the results to come up. When they finally did, he clinked on the first link he saw. It was their website. 

“BPO: Biologic Preservation Organization.” Bruce read aloud. "A multinational research group studying the human genome in the search for positive and consequential mutations.” 

He snorted. “Because that’s not totally creepy.” 

But if this was a research company studying natural mutations, why would they need the serum? It caused a cellular change, but a only a manufactured one, completely man-made. There was no reason this company would have any use for it. And how was Ross connected to it? 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

The river was smooth now, like glass. The bag was empty and Wanda’s adrenaline had finally run out. She sunk to the ground and leaned against the railing. She hadn’t cried. Not for her brother, not yet. When their parents died, she had been inconsolable, sobbing for days on end. But now, she just felt a hollow emptiness, like something was missing from her very soul. It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt truly alone. 

_The tiny fairy lights of a thousand candles flickered on the ruined sidewalk. Half the attendants held narrow white tapers in cardboard cups, and luminarias hovered at the end of each row like little spectral ushers. A pile of rubble had been moved to the side and an old wooden podium stood in the cleared space. White lilies in pots had been placed at the base of it, their gossamer fragrance too delicate to disguise the scent of smoke that still refused to leave the air._

_Pietro and I filed down the center aisle through a thicket of whispers that parted reluctantly to let us through. I sat in the front row, Pietro beside me. Why, I wondered, had they put us in the front, where everyone could stare? The rows of benches felt like a courtroom gallery, hundreds of eyes burning on the back of my neck. Pietro grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back. At least we had each other._

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

Pepper had left hours ago, something about paperwork needing to be done, and Tony had sunk into the couch and stayed there. There was pain in his chest, he could recognize it now, and it twinged every so often like an alarm clock, set to remind him. Remind him of the palladium coursing through his veins, of his rising toxicity levels, of his two months left to live. 

There was no substitute. JARVIS had ran every element and every isotope of every element, none fit. Tony wanted to laugh. It was a poorly executed joke, to be saved from kidnapping and torture and every other monstrosity he faced in Afghanistan, only to be done in by the very thing he’d been saved by. He wanted to laugh at it but he didn’t. Instead, he sat on his musty couch in his lab and thought about how much paperwork Pepper would have to do when he died. 

He wondered how much Obadiah had to do when his parents died. He had been barely conscious at their funeral, hopped up on so many drugs he hardly knew where he was. He remembered smiling incoherently at mourners, shrugging off Obi and Rhodey’s attempts to comfort him. He’s pretty sure he even went to a party afterwards. 

_It was, objectively, one of the worst nights of my life. Not just because of the dead parents thing, yes that sucked, but no one ever tells you how unbearably terrible funerals are. The house was filling with people and the hours passed in a streaky blur of relatives, crying children, covered dishes, blocked driveways, ringing telephones, bright lights, strange faces, awkward conversations. And at least half of that had nothing to do with the handful of pills I’d shoved into my mouth before this._

_Some swinish, hard-faced man trapped me in a corner for hours, boasting about his businesses in Chicago and Nashville and Kansas City until I finally excused myself and locked myself in an upstairs bathroom I’d never been in before._

**

_Wanda - London, England_

When the memory finally released her, Wanda had her knees pulled up to her chest, face buried in them. She blinked in the darkness for a few moments, trying to get her bearings. She was warmer than she thought she would be and the faint scent of….motor oil? was lingering in the air. 

Frowning, she lifted her head. 

She sat on a leather couch in what appeared to be a workshop of some kind. There were machines whirling and working all around her. One had on a paper dunce cap and was staring — can robots stare? — right at her. She blinked at it. It did not blink back. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

Tony looked out at the water in front of him. 

Water? 

He was sitting alone on a bridge, staring out at a huge flat expanse of water. It was freezing cold. 

In a sort of trance, he reached out a hand and touched the metal railing in front of him. This was also freezing cold. Brow furrowed, he removed his hand and tried again, placing just his fingertips on the pole. Again, he was able to feel its temperature, its texture, even. 

This was insane, of course, because he was not on a bridge touching metal railings, he was in his lab, sitting on his leather couch, and wallowing in self-pity. 

And yet, the facts remain that Tony Stark was, somehow, looking at water that shouldn’t be there. Somehow, Tony was in two places at once. 

No, that wasn’t right. 

He wasn’t in two places at once. It was more like he was in two heads at once. He felt like himself, he thought like himself, when he reached out a hand it was his own hand, but there was something foreign about the whole experience. There was a whole other set of thoughts and feelings, right alongside his own. If he focused, he could almost brush up against them, like he was running a hand down the flank of a horse. He could feel their warmth, their emotion, their vitality. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda ran her hand across the leather couch. Just like when she was in the police car, she could feel the fabric and texture, as real as if she were there. 

There was another presence, right on her peripheral. She turned around. A man with an expertly trimmed beard and a grease-smudged shirt sat behind the couch on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest. He was looking off into the distance. Wanda knew he was looking at the Thames River. 

“Hello.” She whispered, hoping her voice wouldn’t shatter whatever fragile connection they were sharing. 

The man turned. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

“Uh, hi?” Tony said. 

The girl stood behind him. He knew this was the other presence he felt. She seemed so familiar, the thoughts and feelings in his head matching up perfectly to the woman standing in front of him. There was a weight to her too, something was wrong. 

“Something’s wrong.” He said. 

Immediately her face changed, jaw clenching, lips pursing. He knew she was fighting off tears, he felt them choking up his own throat. 

“Yes.” She said. 

He didn’t ask her to elaborate. 

They sat there for an indeterminable amount of time. Wanda watching Dum-E halfheartedly mop the floor. Tony watching the clouds drift over the moon. It was nice. Her sadness gave justification for his. His self-pity gave reprieve from hers. It was a kind of comfort Tony had never felt before. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Sonya Petrovna’s house was empty. There was a rotten, half-eaten plate of food on the table attracting flies and a load of laundry still in the wash. She hadn’t been home for at least two days. And, judging by the bloody handprint Natasha found staining the shower curtain, she would never be home again. 

“Damn it!” 

She kicked a spindly stool over. It shattered on impact and splinters flew everywhere. 

The one lead — the only lead — Natasha had had in five years. Dead. Gone. Never to be seen again. She forced herself to stop and take a deep breath. 

“Think, think, think.” She muttered. 

What does this mean? Sonya didn’t leave her house of her own accord, that much was clear. So, she was taken — kidnapped by someone. But why? Who else wanted information about her sister? Or, more importantly, who wanted to prevent Natasha from finding that information?

The answer was obvious: whoever took her in the first place. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda stood in front of Hope and Scott’s door for almost five minutes before gathering up the courage to knock. She hated the thought of putting the Langs at any sort of risk — who knew who was after her at the moment. But, she also knew that if she had any chance of finding her brother’s killer, she was going to need help. 

The door swung open. “Wanda?” Scott said, blinking blearily at her. 

“Hey, Scott.” 

“Scott? Who’s at the door?” Came Hope’s voice from somewhere inside the house.

“It’s Wanda, love.” 

There was a sound of the bed creaking and footsteps and then the door opened wider, and Wanda was able to see Hope standing there behind Scott. 

“Wanda!” Hope said, pulling her into a hug. “Hello, my love. It’s so good to see you.” 

Wanda wrapped her arms around Hope’s waist and squeezed, closing her eyes. For the first time in almost six days, she felt tears welling up in them. 

“You too, Hope. Um, listen, I could use some….help?” She said quietly, her voice muffled into Hope’s shoulder. 

She pulled back, eyes filled with concern. “Yeah….yeah, of course, Wanda. Whatever you need. How about a cup of tea to start, hm?” She looped her arm with Wanda’s pulling her into the flat. “Scott, love, can you start the kettle?” 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

“Sir, Justin Hammer is at the door.” JARVIS said, jerking Tony awake from the doze he was indulging in while waiting for the coffee pot to refill. 

“Hammer?” He frowned. “What the hell does he want?” 

“I expect you’re about to find out, Sir.” 

Sure enough, Hammer was walking through the door two seconds later, looking all ‘Daddy’s money’ in his tailored suit and squeaky clean shoes. It made Tony want to punch him right in his stupid face. 

“Hammer,” he said, pouring his coffee and leaning back against the counter, “to what do I owe this unpleasant visit? Aren’t you supposed to be up in New York? Don’t tell me, the mayor kicked you out because babies wouldn’t stop crying every time you walked in a room? Or was it some Christmas related incident, painted yourself green and got a little creepy with a girl named Cindy-Lou?” 

Hammer chuckled lightly. “Good to see you too, Stark. I’m actually here for business purposes only, but I thought I’d drop by and see an old friend. After all, who knows how to mix business and pleasure better than Tony Stark? Although, I’m told you’ve left that life behind you, now.” 

Tony took another sip of his coffee and resisted the urge to spit it back in Hammer’s face. “Yeah, well getting kidnapped and tortured changes a man. It’s a shame though, I’d have given half my fortune to see Justin Hammer get roofied at a strip club.”

“I’m sure you would have.” 

Tony rolled his eyes and set the mug down. “What do you want, Hammer? I have important things to do and your fugly mug is throwin’ off my game.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t stay long. I just came to warn you.” 

Tony lifted an eyebrow. “Warn me?” 

“Yes. There’s been a lot of chatter lately. Chatter about you and your….” Hammer cast a shrewd eye over Tony’s disheveled appearance, “mental stability.” 

“What the fuck does my mental stability have to do with anything? And, by the way, chatter? What is this? A fifties rom-com, who’s ‘chattering’ about me?” 

“General Thaddeus Ross is worried that you might not be in the right mental state to be in possession of such…volatile armor.” 

“What? My suits?” 

Hammer nodded seriously, “I’ve even heard some talks about sequestering your suits.” 

“What is this, Hammer? A threat?” 

“Oh no, no,” Hammer shook his head, although a slimy grin remained on his face, “I’d never threaten you, Tony. Like I said, this is just a warning. One friend to another. Be careful about how you present yourself in public. I’d truly hate to see anything happen to you….or your suits.” 

Tony stood in stunned silence as Hammer turned on his heel and marched out Tony’s door, that self-righteous smirk still glued to his face. 

“What the hell just happened?” 

“I believe Mr. Hammer just threatened to take your Iron Man suits, Sir.” Came JARVIS’s reply. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

“Are you sure? That’s what he said exactly?” Betty asked.

Bruce nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I overheard. I did some research on BPO, but there’s no reason they should want the serum.” 

Betty worried her bottom lip between her teeth and glanced behind them and then pulled her laptop towards them. “This is what I wanted to show you yesterday. Look,” she said, pointing at the history log, “there was an attempted login by an unknown user at around three pm, when you were checking on your patients in the village. I was worried one of the interns were trying to sell our data, so I traced the IP address….” 

“What’d you find?” Bruce said in a low voice, leaning closer. 

“It came from my dad’s computer.” Betty looked up at him, eyes filled with worry. "He was trying to view our data.” 

“But why wouldn’t he just….” Bruce started to ask before realizing, “He didn’t want us to know that he was looking.” 

Betty nodded. “That’s what I think. And, with what you just told me, I’m guessing it was so that he could give an update to BPO or whatever company he’s trying to sell the serum to.” 

Bruce sucked in a breath. “Betty, if this serum falls in the wrong hands — “

“I know.” 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Natasha’s mind spun as she ran through the motions of prepping for her client. 

It was like some twisted version of a catch-22. She needed to know how and why her sister was taken in order for her to find Sonya, but she needed to find Sonya in order to figure out how and why her sister was taken. And, by whom. She had her own theories, but no way of proving them without the help of someone who had more information. 

On her third attempt to pull her dress on backwards, she let out a sigh and forced herself to focus. She just needed to get through this client, and then she could go back to driving herself insane with theories. 

She checked the slick business card again. Her client for tonight was named Pierre Lebedev. It was probably a fake name, but she was pretty sure it was his first time using the Red Room. Which means she gets no warning if he’s crazy. 

She touched up the last of her makeup. 

With the way her luck was going, he was going to be batshit insane. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

“Betty, we can’t let him hand the serum over to BPO. I don’t know why they want it, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.” 

Betty reluctantly nodded. “I know, I know, you’re right. Military-use is one thing, but privatized corporations shouldn’t have access to this kind of chemical technology.” 

Betty pursed her lips before taking a breath and nodding, seemingly coming to some sort of agreement with herself. She pulled a small flash-drive out of her bag and, with a quick look around them, plugged it into the computer. 

“I had this made a while ago, just in case something went wrong and we needed to make a quick escape. It’ll pull all of our data from the computer and then wipe the hard drive.” She explained. 

Bruce looked at her with raised eyebrows. “I thought you supported the serum.” 

“I did, this was….” She hesitated, “just in case.” 

“Just in case.” Bruce repeated, watching the loading bar on the screen reach one hundred percent. 

She pulled out the flash drive and handed it to him. The screen on the computer went dark. For security reasons, they’d only kept data on encrypted files attached to this computer, so at least they didn’t need to worry about random copies being left behind on one of the interns laptops. No, all they needed to worry about was their boss illegally selling dangerous technology to a sinister company for equally sinister reasons. Totally chill. 

Bruce felt a bead of sweat drip down his back as he shoved the small flash drive deep in his lab coat pocket. 

“Okay, just head back to your room, I’ll finish up here and then meet you later on tonight. We can….figure out the plan then.” Betty said in a hurried whisper, closing the computer. 

Bruce nodded, checking around them to see if any of the interns had noticed something amiss. They were all working diligently at their own stations, completely oblivious. He turned to leave, but before he could get even five towards the exit, the door to the lab swung open. 

“Clocking out already, Dr. Banner?” General Ross said. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Everything was fine until he put his hands to Natasha's throat. 

Pierre had come in, stumbling and drunk, and rubbed up against her with little preamble. She didn’t think they had kissed even once before he was pressing into her, hot and panting. It wasn’t exactly the most fun client she’s ever had, but he was leagues away from being the worst. So she had resigned herself to the fate of closing her eyes and counting the seconds until his, predictably quick, end. 

Then, he had wrapped his large, sweaty hands around her throat. She’d had clients who were into that sort of thing before, but she wasn’t exactly expecting it with Pierre. Nor was she expecting him to lean his whole body weight into it, a murderous glint in his eye. 

Ah, now she understood. 

Poor Sonya. Hopefully her end was not this….sweaty. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

Bruce froze to the floor, heart leaping into his throat. General Ross walked fully into the room, meandering at a leisurely pace. There were six armed men who followed him, their guns out. Ross wore a smug expression, hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets. 

“Where could Dr. Banner possibly be going at,” he checked his watch, “three pm in the afternoon? Surely this is too late for a lunch break.” 

Bruce kept his hands steady in the air, every ounce of concentration he had going towards not glancing down at his pocket. Not doing anything that would give them away. 

“I forgot my pen in my room, I was just going back to get it.” He said, fighting to keep his voice measured, calm. 

“Well, surely my daughter has a pen you could borrow. Don’t you, sweetie?” 

Betty audibly gulped. 

“This is a….uh, special pen?” Bruce jumped in, wincing as his voice cracked at the end. 

Ross looked back towards him with a raised eyebrow. “A special….pen.” 

Bruce could see Betty trying to shoot him warning looks from the corner of his eye but he ignored it. He made the hill, guess he’s gotta die on it. 

“Uh, yes, sir. A special pen. It has really nice….ink. Like it flows super smoothly and has really nice….texture….” His voice trailed off at the end, hands making useless gestures in an attempt to make the words coming out of his mouth sound a little less idiotic. 

“A special pen with really nice ink.” Ross repeated. “Alright, Banner, why don’t you go back to your room to get your special pen, you seem very attached to it. Morgan, Hobbes go with him. Make sure nothing happens to him. Or the pen.” 

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, took a deep breath, and opened them again. He tried to walk to the lab doors as confidently as he could. He tried to make it seem like he definitely wasn’t about to piss his pants. He didn’t know if anyone bought. 

Morgan and Hobbes — the two scariest of the scary armed men, yippee — followed him through the doors, still holding up the guns. Bruce didn’t allow himself to look back at Betty. No matter how much it felt like the last time he’d ever see her. 

They got all the way up to his door before Morgan made his first move. As Bruce reached for the doorknob, desperately trying to remember if he did actually have a pen in his room, Morgan slammed the butt of his gun against Bruce’s forearm. Shooting pain ran up to his shoulder and Bruce whirled around, slamming his back into the door behind him and weakly put his arms up into a fighting position he only knew from the movies. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

All of Natasha’s instincts came flooding back in an instant. She rammed her knee into Pierre’s side as best she could in her position and jammed her fingers into his eyes. He cried out and fell off of her, stumbling back with his hands pressed tightly to his face. She sucked in as much air as she could before rolling off the bed and kicking the back of his knees out, forcing him down to the floor. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

Morgan and Hobbes smirked at Bruce’s weak attempt to defend himself. The next blow came from Hobbes, directly to Bruce’s stomach. It knocked the air out of his lungs and he immediately dropped his hands to his stomach, gasping for air. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Once Pierre was on the floor, the rest came naturally. A well aimed kick to the side of his head caused him to scramble back in a blind panic. She grabbed a pillow that had fallen off the bed and dropped to the floor, pressing it down onto Pierre’s face, muffling his shouts. 

She avoided his kicking legs and put all her body weight into keeping the pillow down, paying no mind to the scratches his frantic nails left on her arms. 

She counted down the seconds to his, predictably quick, end.

_**_

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

Another punch to his side sent Bruce to the floor, dropping to his hands and knees. There was a kick to his stomach that stole all of the air he’d managed to regain, and he fell to the side, curling up into a tight ball against the torrid of blows. 

“Take a deep breath.” A voice next to him said. “Stay calm.” 

He glanced up. A woman with short, red hair sat next him. She was….naked? And she had a thick, Russian accent. 

“Help me.” He whispered. “Please.” 

Something was dripping down his forehead, obscuring his eyes. She brushed it away, her hand soft and smooth against his sweaty skin. She nodded and stood, not self-conscious about her nudity in the least.

Bruce tucked his head back into his arms and resolved himself to a slow and bloody death, the last thing he saw being a hallucination of a naked, Russian lady. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in the hall, Morgan and Hobbes bloody and broken on the floor around him. 

He checked their pulses. They didn’t have one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an absolute whore for kudos and comments ;) thanks babes


	4. Through Love You Are Sustained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Peter's fate draws nearer, Natasha and Bruce's fortunes seemed to have turned for the worse, and Clint is faced with an impossible choice.

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

The rings left behind on the bar from beer mugs were nearly impossible to clean off, but Clint was trying his best. He wasn’t really sure how much the scrubbing was helping though, the rag was almost as dirty as the bar top itself.

Clint felt like that bar top. 

He could scrub and scrub and scrub, but no matter what he did, he could not clear his mind enough to find a conceivable way out of his situation. The note that the men had left him was sat on his bedside table like a particularly ugly anvil: hard to look at and even harder to move. The number inside of it seemed to get infinitely larger every day. 

Clint sprayed the cleaner again and kept scrubbing. 

**

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S.A._

“What?” Said Thor, his mouth suddenly running on automatic while his world ceased to spin. 

Loki’s mouth was in a thin line as he nodded. “I’m sorry….I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We should have called you when his condition began to worsen, but….but we thought he’d pull through. Again.” 

Thor took a deep breath. And then another. And tried to comprehend the situation that was unfolding around him, but his brain was being very uncooperative. Sif dropped down on to the couch, her brow scrunched up. 

“We figured it was better you find out this way, rather than any newspaper or tv channel. Mother’s planning to release the news of his death to the public tomorrow.” Loki said. 

His voice was as calm and smooth as ever, no hint of a tremor or wobble. Thor hated him for it. 

“It’s….Father, he’s….”

“Dead,” Loki said softly, “I’m sorry, brother.” 

Thor sat down on the couch beside Sif. She put a hand on his arm. 

“The funeral is scheduled for two days from now,” Loki hesitated, “the coronation is the day after.” 

At this, Thor looked up. “Coronation?”

Loki cleared his throat, and stiffly dropped to one knee. Sif gasped. 

“Yes….Your Majesty.” 

Thor’s world shattered like glass. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

By the time Natasha got back from Pierre Lebedev’s hotel room, it was five am and she didn’t have any blood on her. Pierre’s death had been quiet, an easy pillow to the face. It was all together a bloodless affair. 

But what was strange was that there wasn't a drop or smudge from the two men she’d killed in that long dark hallway minutes after. Those deaths had been less quiet. She remembered wiping blood off of a man’s forehead — _Bruce_ her mind told her. She didn’t know how she knew that — but when she looked at her thumb, it was clean. 

She turned on the shower, stripped her clothes off, and stepped inside. The warm water washed over her like a wave of heat. 

These….visions were getting harder and harder to ignore. There was something going on, that much was irrefutable. 

She tried to remember every face she’d seen so far, but new ones kept popping up. She felt like she was in one of those dreams where you’re trying to sort files, but every time you turn your back, the ones you just sorted fall into disarray again. 

There was the blond man on the fire escape — _Steve_.

The one with the neatly trimmed beard who always smelled slightly of motor oil — _Tony_. 

The blonde haired man from the restaurant — _Clint_.

And finally, the brown haired one from the hallway — _Bruce_. 

But even as she tried to organize these new names and faces, other ones appeared in her mind. 

A large man with shoulder length, blonde hair sat on a bed, an empty suitcase beside him. 

A smaller man with brown hair laid in a hospital bed, his wrists shackled to the bars. 

A woman with long, red hair sipped at a cup of tea. 

Maybe she was going crazy. 

Maybe something extraordinary was happening to her. 

Part of her wanted to go find out. Abandon her work, her clients. She could feel the pull, too. Somewhere deep in her chest urged her to go out and find them, to be with them, to touch them. 

But abandoning her work meant abandoning…. _her_. 

She rinsed the shampoo out of her hair and picked up the razor. She had work in a few hours and she’d be docked pay if she showed up with unshaved legs. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

Clint gave the bar one last wipe before returning the spray bottle and rag to their designated spots behind the counter. He squinted at the bar top and, after a few seconds of careful examination, shrugged and decided it was as good as it was gonna get. 

He made his way over to the cash register, glancing at the clock as he did. It was three am. Fuck that’s late. 

He quietly mourned the long sleep he was planning on getting as he counted the money in the register. So much for his full eight hours, he was opening tomorrow morning (or should he say, _this morning_ ) and Barney would scalp him if he didn’t unlock the doors by nine am. 

He made his way to the last pile of hundred dollar bills and as he counted them, his thoughts turned to his father. He’d always known Harold Barton was a piece of shit drunk. What he didn’t know was that he was a _gambling_ piece of shit drunk. The men who had left Clint the note were serious business. Their symbol was stamped in the top right corner of the note and it was enough to make him nearly shit his pants. Every man, woman, and child in Berlin knew that a single rose stamped in red ink meant death. Either for themselves or a loved one. 

There was no way he was getting out of this without sever loss of life or limb. 

He counted the last one hundred dollar bill and put it on top of the neat stack. His fingers froze on it and an idea began forming in his head. 

It was a very stupid idea. One that was definitely going to get him killed. But his alternative was….also getting killed. It was just a matter of which was the better death. 

He held his breath as he carefully slide a one hundred dollar bill across the counter. He didn’t let himself hesitate before he tucked it into his pocket. He didn’t let himself squirm of worry as he closed and locked the cash register, turned off the lights, and locked the front doors. 

It wasn’t until he was all the way back at his apartment, under the cover of his dim lights, that he let himself fully understand the gravity of his actions. 

“Fuck.” He whispered to himself. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

The car had been pure luck. Parked right outside the building, keys still the ignition. Bruce hadn’t hesitated. 

Now, he sped down a long highway. It was still dark out and he was one of the only cars on the road. He was going so fast, every building he passed looked like a blur. Finally, after about two hours, the city gave way to red, flat dirt on either side of the road. The trees here were tall and green, their leaves wild. 

Bruce felt the pressure on his chest slowly begin ease out. He took a deep breath and relaxed his hands on the wheel. The moisture in the air was almost palpable. It was nothing like the cramped, stale lab. 

He was safe. He was out. 

He drove down the Kampala countryside and didn’t think about the two dead bodies in a long, dark hallway. He didn’t think about how Betty was now alone and probably taking full responsibility for him. He didn’t think about the small flash drive burning a hole in his pocket right now. 

All he did was breath in the warm, moist air and drive. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

Clint felt more paranoid than he had in years. He did a full sweep of his house, checking behind doors and curtains, under the bed. When he’d at last determined that he was well and truly alone, he let out a long breath, and pulled the hundred dollar bill from his pocket. 

It was so simple an object. One he saw almost every day. But, at this moment, the slip of flimsy paper seemed like the heaviest thing in the universe. 

After a few more minutes of agonizing deliberation, he tucked it into the metal safe in his closet, closed the door, and tried to shake off the feeling that he had just made a colossal mistake. 

**

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S.A._

When Thor was twelve, his father forced him to take ballroom dancing lessons. He went on and on explaining duty and privilege, and tradition. Thor had been pretty sure that was code for degradation, punishment, and humiliation. He would stand on one side of the room with his teacher on the other, staring down at him with her unforgiving eyes, and would refuse to dance. He always ended up dancing, anyways. 

He hated those lessons. He would spend the whole week dreading them. So much so, that the day before his two-hour class, he would spend the whole day in bed, staring at the ceiling and lamenting the fact that in less than twenty-four hours he would have to stumble his way through the fox-trot. 

That was how he felt now, lying in bed with an empty suitcase next to him, counting down the hours until he has to get on a plane and return to a place he swore he’d never go back to. 

And right alongside that feeling of dread, was an even worse feeling of guilt. 

His father was dead. Gone. He’d never see him again. And here he was, worrying about the congestion he always gets on planes. 

How is he an even worse son after his father’s death? 

“Are you alright?” A voice said. 

There was woman with long red hair sitting next to him on his bed. 

“I….what? How did you….?” He stammered, glancing between her and the — still closed — door. 

The girl shrugged. “I’ve stopped trying to come up with answers. There are none that make sense. I’m Wanda, by the way.” 

Thor stared at her, his heart still pounding. 

She squinted at him. “And you’re….Thor?”

“How did you know that?” 

“I’m not sure,” Wanda shrugged again, “another question I can’t seem to answer.” 

Thor let out a weak laugh. “Am I losing my mind?” He asked her. 

“If you are, then I am too. It seems unlikely that we’re both going losing our minds.” 

“More unlikely than….” He made a vague gesture between them, “this being real?” 

Wanda cracked a small smile. “I guess not. You never answered my question.” 

“What question?” 

“Are you alright?” 

Thor let out a long breath. “You mean besides apparently losing my mind and talking to a hallucination?” 

Wanda smiled again. “Yes, besides that.” 

Thor didn’t answer for a long time. He stared at his hands. They were cold and shaking slightly. 

“My father died yesterday.” He finally answered. 

Wanda’s expression didn’t change, but she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. He could feel its warmth through his thin shirt. 

“My brother died a week ago.”

He looked up at her. “I’m so sorry.” 

She bowed her head slightly. "I….I haven’t cried yet, not really.” 

“Me neither.” He paused. “I feel horrible about it. He was my father, I should be….I should be sobbing.” 

She shrugged. “We all feel guilt differently. But I….I know what you mean.” 

“I’m supposed to go back to Norway tomorrow. For his funeral. And my coronation.” 

“Coronation?” 

Thor sucked in a shaky breath. “Yes. My father is-was the king.” 

Wanda’s mouth fell open. “Your father was All-Father Odin? Like the king of Norway?” 

“The one and only.” 

“And so now you’re….” 

“I’m nothing until my coronation. Which is in two days.” 

After a moment of silence, Wanda looked at him with a more sober expression. “You don’t want to go.”

It was not a question. She said it without judgement, but Thor still closed his eyes against the shame of it. The hand on his shoulder tightened, forcing him to look up at Wanda. 

“Thor,” she said, “I’m not going to tell you to go to Norway. You can go or not go, that is your choice. But, whatever you choose, do not choose it out of fear. The choices we make when we are afraid, are the choices we end up regretting the most. Make your choice and make it bravely.” 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

There was a checkpoint in the distance. They were really common near the Kenyan border and were absolutely nothing to worry about. Bruce was still hyperventilating by the time he pulled up to the window. 

“ID?” The man at the kiosk said. 

Bruce handed it to him with a shaking hand. 

The man took it and scanned it under a machine on his desk. The light blinked red. He frowned and scanned it again. Red, again. He looked up at Bruce and back to the ID, squinting. 

Bruce was pretty sure he was going to throw up. 

The man said something into his earpiece and another man came out from the back and scanned Bruce’s ID on a different machine. It still blinked red. 

“Step out of the vehicle.” The first man said. 

Bruce did so with shaking legs. Both men had a large machine guns strapped to their belts. 

“Come with us.” 

Bruce followed the two men into the forest behind the kiosk and tried not to feel like he was marching to his death. 

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

Tony woke up to his head under water and Yinsen’s hands in his chest. He shot straight up, gasping and opened his eyes to his bedroom. The bed beneath him was damp with sweat and he fell back against the pillows, trying to get his breathing under control. The arc reactor felt heavy and obtrusive in his chest, both his saving grace and his slow execution. 

“Sir, you are at your home in Malibu in the United States of America. You are having a panic attack, you are safe.” 

Tony almost snorted at that. Right, safe except for the poison coursing through his veins. 

“Time?” He said, his voice coming out hoarse. 

“The time is six twenty-three in the morning.” 

He didn’t respond. The dim lights in his bedroom had slowly faded on, warm and nothing like the glaring Afghan sun. He forced himself to take another slow, deep breath, before sitting up and throwing the covers off.

“Are you feeling better, Sir?” 

He made a noncomittal noise and reached for the glass bottle of whiskey he kept on his bedside table. The clink of ice cubes against glass and the burn of whiskey further chased the dream away, and Tony felt his heart rate finally begin to slow. 

“Sir, considering the damage the palladium poison is doing to your liver, I do not believe alcohol is a wise—“

“Mute.” Tony said and finished the glass. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

When Clint’s alarm clock went off, he was already awake, laying ramrod straight in bed, eyes wide open. He could not close them, terrified of the metal safe in his closet. He felt like a child again, too scared of the monster under his bed to go to sleep. Except, he was twenty-six years old and the monster’s name was Barney Barton. 

Sighing, he sat up and threw the covers off of himself. He dressed for work relatively quickly, and sat down on his now-made bed to pull on his boots. When he stuck his foot inside though, it was met with a soft mushiness at the bottom. 

“What the fuck?" He yanked his foot out, eyes wide. There was dark mud covering his sock. 

A moment later, his sock was clean and dry again. 

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

The dark mud from the forest had soaked through Bruce’s shoe and was now covering his sock. It was soft and mushy and possibly one of the most unpleasant sensations he’d ever felt. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Anatole stood over the fully stocked bar cart in the hotel room, considering Natasha. 

“Have you ever had Arran?” He asked her, already pouring a second glass. “Very rare. Very expensive. Here, taste.” 

Natasha sipped on the whiskey delicately, looking up at Anatole through her eyelashes as she licked the remaining droplets from her top lip. Even after ten years of playing this game, she still felt ridiculous doing the more cliche moves. But, they’ve never failed her. Even from here, she could see Anatole's pupils expand. 

“Delicious, yes?” He breathed out. 

Natasha nodded, setting the glass down. He walked towards her at a leisurely pace, but she could already see the tightness in his pants, controlled movements, carefully monitored breaths. It was too easy. She leaned forward, the hand on the bar cart supporting her weight. From this angle, Anatole had a perfect shot of her cleavage. His eyes flicked down once, then twice, pupils expanding even more. 

He stepped closer, hand coming to cover her own on the bar. It was cold and clammy. Gross. She flipped her hand and trailed her fingertips over his wrist. He let out a shaky breath, eyes darkening, and Natasha wasted no time dropping to her knees. 

Over the years, she’d learned excessive foreplay got her no where. The end result was just the same, the only difference being how long she had to put up with a man’s cold, clammy hands. 

She mouthed at his slit, reaching her other hand around to fondle his balls. When she closed her eyes, a rough hand gripped her hair, forcing her to look back up at him. 

“Fuck, you’re hot.” He moaned as she licked a slow line up the underside of his cock. 

Anatole buried his hands in her hair, pulling just on the wrong-side of too hard, and Natasha’s eyes watered. He was thrusting hard enough into her mouth that she had to make a conscious effort to relax the back of her throat and breathe measured breaths through her nose. 

When it was over, Anatole kissed her lazily. It came as a bit of a shock to Natasha, he didn’t seem the type, but she was hardly complaining, especially when he rolled over, immediately passing out. 

She didn’t work until eleven the next morning, so she also could go to sleep, but there was a nagging feeling that kept her awake and restless. 

Natasha had always prided herself on her intuition. It came in handy with her job and so far, she hadn’t been wrong yet. Her intuition told her that something was off about Anatole, something she couldn’t place. 

When she’d first walked in to the hotel room, there had been no appraising up-and-down look, no careful study of her features to see if she suited his tastes. It was like he’d seen her before. Not completely unrealistic, a lot of clients stop by the bar or lounge to browse, before selecting the girl they desired. But she hadn’t worked a shift there in over two months. And she hardly ever forgot a face. 

As quietly as possible, Natasha sat up, looking around the room. Anatole’s clothes were in a crumpled pile on the floor near the bar cart and she padded over to them on quiet feet. Grabbing the pants, she fumbled around with them in the dark before finding one of the pockets and pulling out — _ah ha!_ — his phone. It was one of the newer models, but not new enough to require Face ID in order to read texts. 

There were only two on the lock screen. One, unsurprisingly, said something vague and sketchy about a business deal, but it was the second one that made her heart jump. 

_We have the Petrovna girl. Let us know when you can do the trade._

_**_

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

The men did not speak to Bruce until they reached a large clearing about a mile into the forest. 

“Stop.” One of them said. 

There was black van in the middle of the clearing. Bruce tried to peer inside of it, but the windows were heavily tinted. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he saw anyways. The man that told him to stop approached the van and knocked on the drivers side window. The other man stayed next to Bruce, hand resting idly on his machine gun. Bruce tried not to throw up all over his mud-covered shoes. The flash drive in his pocket felt like an anvil. 

“Listen to me very closely.” A voice right next his ear said. It spoke English.

Bruce jumped and whipped his head around, trying to find the source of the voice. There was no one there. The man with the machine gun looked at him strangely. 

“Don’t look at me, don’t respond to me. Just listen.” The voice said, again. This time, Bruce could catch a glimpse of a dark skinned man with a single, black eyepatch out of the corner of his eye. 

“You cannot let them get to that flash drive. It is paramount that they do not gain access to your research, Doctor Banner. Call on your cluster for help. You need to leave, _now_.” 

Before Bruce could even begin to react, there was another flash of movement on the other side of him. When he turned his head to see what it was, he found himself standing a few feet away from the edge of the clearing. In his place, stood a tall, blonde man wearing an American police uniform. The man with the eyepatch was gone. 

The police officer didn’t hesitate, grabbing the machine gun with one hand and using the other to land a nasty-sounding punch on its owner’s face. He shot him once in the chest and turned, shooting the other man before he even had a chance to reach for his own machine gun. With frightening efficiency, he turned and started sprinting towards Bruce, reaching over his shoulder to fire multiple shots at the black van. 

He thrust the gun at Bruce, who stood there open-mouth gaping. When he still didn’t move after a few seconds, the blonde man gripped his shoulders and shook him gently. 

“Run, Bruce. Run!” 

It did the trick, shocking Bruce back to reality. There were still muffled sounds coming from the black van, which meant that there were still scary men with machine guns coming after him, which meant it was, indeed, time for him to run. 

Tree branches whipped his face and ankles as he sprinted back to the car, but he paid them no mind, the sounds of the black van pursuing him mattered much more than a few scratches. It was only through luck and the density of the forest that he was able to reach his still running car without dying a gruesome death. 

He didn’t waste time closing the drivers side door, just took off speeding down the highway without a single glance backwards. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

Katie was gaping at him. Clint swallowed nervously. 

“Well, say something.” He said. 

“Can I have your stuff when you’re dead?” 

He groaned and dropped his head to the table.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” 

“Fucked? Clint, you’re beyond fucked. You’ve been handcuffed, plowed, and left to rot. Stealing from the bar, Clint? What were you thinking?!” 

“Well, clearly, Katie-Kate, I wasn’t. Some evil spirit with exactly half a brain cell took over my body and forced me to make the stupidest, deadliest choice of my life.” 

“You do realize Barney’s gonna kill you, right? Like with an axe, _Shining_ -style.” 

Clint jerked his head up sharply. 

“Katie!” He hissed. “Talk fucking quieter, you know he has eyes everywhere.” 

She only rolled her eyes and picked up the menu. He was probably being a little paranoid, the restaurant they were in was mostly empty, its only patrons being a gaggle of teenage girls and one singular old man, idly sipping on a milkshake. Still, you ever can’t be too careful. Not with Barney Barton.

Fucked. He was so, so fucked. 

“Well, last meal, Barton, what’ll it be?” Katie said, gesturing to his menu. 

He went to go pick up his menu, but found himself unable to move his hands. They were….restrained? 

When he glanced down he saw velcro restraints around his wrists, holding them to the chair. He tried to raise his hands again, but they held tight. Heart pounding, he strained with all his might, pulling up, up, up….

“What the fuck, Clint?!” Katie shouted as his hands smacked into the underside of the table, sending their menus and napkins flying. 

“I don’t—“ He glanced down at his wrists, no handcuffs. Not even a mark to suggest they were ever there. “Uh, I’m sorry? I guess I’m….jumpy.” 

He offered up an apologetic smile to the exasperated-looking waitress and placed the menus back on the table. 

“Yeah, well….” Katie’s voice softened minutely, “I’d be jumpy too if I knew I was seconds away from being fucked up the ass with a cactus by my brother.” 

“Gee thanks, Katie.” 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

If Peter was ever unsure about his feelings towards rope-kinks, those days were long behind him. 

Waking up restrained to his hospital bed officially made the top five worst-wake-ups-of-his-life list. Maybe even top three. Definitely above waking up in Wade Wilson’s bed junior year of college. And that’s saying something. 

He pulled at the restraints in vain. They were velcro, which seemed deceptively simple, but turns out they were made of fucking vibranium or some shit, because they were _impossible to break_. 

His heart was pounding and he was covered in sweat by the time Doctor Zola entered his room. Yeah, definitely not into being tied up. 

“Good morning, Mr. Parker, how are you feeling today?” Doctor Zola said. 

“Oh, hiya Doc. Yeah, I’m feeling totally great, just peachy.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Zola said, picking up Peter's chart.

“Yeah, so great, in fact, that I’m pretty sure these restraints? Totally unnecessary.” 

Doctor Zola looked up and frowned. “Peter, those are for your own safety. As well as the others around you. You attacked two nurses, Peter.” 

Peter blinked at him. “What?” 

“Just yesterday, when you were being given your medicine.” Doctor Zola took off his glasses and leaned in, slightly. “Do you not remember that, Peter?” 

“No, I-I didn’t—I wouldn’t—do that….” Peter trailed off, suddenly unsure. He had been told he would start to experience a deterioration of his mental faculties, but surely, he wouldn’t have….

“This is progressing much faster than I thought.” Zola said, staring at him, long and hard, before giving a firm nod. “I think it’d be best to move your surgery date up—“ 

“What?! No, I—“ 

“—to today. I’ll page the nurse to start prepping you.” 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

The sound of a gun clicking interrupted Natasha’s slowly spiraling thoughts. She froze, still holding Anatole’s phone, wondering how the hell she was going to get herself out of this one. 

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” Anatole said. 

She turned around slowly. He stood a couple of feet away from her in just his boxers, pointing a nine millimeter. 

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re going to have to kill me because I saw something I shouldn't have?” She said, doing her best to keep her voice flat and uninterested. 

“Kill you? Oh no, no, darling. Killing you would get me nothing but a bag of bones to dispose off. No, why would I kill you when I could use you?” 

“Use me to get Sonya, you mean?” 

“You are a sharp one, Ms. Romanov. But, not sharp enough, I’m afraid. The Sparrows have known where you are for years. Your sister? Not so much. Maybe Ms. Petrovna will have a better clue, yes?” 

She barely got a warning before he advanced on her, covering the few feet in between them with two easy strides. She blocked his first punch, but that left her side open, which earned her a sharp jab to the ribs. She gasped, eyes watering, and barely had time to block the butt of his gun, as he tried to knock her out with it. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

Steve gasped, eyes watering, and blocked the butt of the man’s gun. He switched his grip in order to twist the man’s — _Anatole_ his mind provided him — wrist, forcing him to drop the gun. He dodged the swing that followed and ducked in order to sweep Anatole’s legs out from under him. Once he was on the ground, Steve delivered a sharp kick to the side of Anatole’s head, knocking him out. 

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

Natasha bent down to retrieve the gun from beside Anatole, who was splayed out on the carpet, a nasty looking bruise already forming on the side of his head. 

She stared at the gun. 

Who had helped her this time? 

_Steve_ , her mind provided. 

An image of a tall, blonde man appeared in her mind.

She turned the gun over in her hands. It felt….good. Knowing people had her back. It wasn’t a feeling she’d had — wasn’t a feeling she’d let herself have — since Yelena’s disappearance. 

Looking back at Anatole, still out cold, she clenched her jaw and, without a second of hesitation, shot him in the calf. Wasn’t enough to bleed out, just enough to give her a head start. He didn’t even flinch. Steve must have kicked _hard_. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

“You alright there, Rogers?” Agent Coulson asked. 

Steve blinked and the room disappeared. He was back at the city jail, linoleum floors and black furniture nothing like the lavish hotel room. 

Agent Coulson was still giving him a strange look, so he tried to muster up a smile and nodded. Last thing he needed was anyone at the Feds office start questioning his mental stability. He didn’t let himself admit that it was because he actually wasn’t sure if his mental stability could stand up against scrutiny right now. 

“Alright, son, just hang tight and I’ll go fetch Officer Jones.” 

Steve sat down on a black, leather sofa after Coulson left. He ran his hands over his face, the image of the red-head flashing behind his eyelids. His heart still thumped and he could feel sweat drying on his back. So, he was physically responding as though he had actually been in a fight? But, Coulson definitely would’ve noticed if Steve had started punching thin air, right? How could he have been _there_ and _here_ at once? 

Simple answer: he was losing his mind. 

Hopefully today would give him a good alternative answer. 

“Steve-fucking-Rogers, you son of a bitch.” 

Steve looked up at the sound of Gabe’s voice and smiled at his friend walking towards him. He hadn’t seen Gabe in years. It made him feel kind of guilty about the reason he was visiting him now. 

“Zdravstvuyte, Gabe. Kak dela?” He said. 

Gabe blinked at him. “Dude, I didn’t know you spoke Russian.” 

Maybe not so guilty, after all. 

“Uh….” Steve said eloquently. “Just something I’ve been trying to pick up, I guess?” 

Thankfully, it appeared to be in English, because Gabe just shrugged, seemingly letting it go. 

“So what brings you here, Rogers?” 

“Uh, yeah. I was actually hoping you could help me out with something?” 

“Shoot, what’s up?” 

Steve swallowed. “Nick Fury, actually. I was hoping to talk with him, maybe—“ 

“Yeah, no can do,” Gabe cut him off, “we’re under strict orders not to let anyone see him, sorry Steve.” 

Steve sighed, disappointed, but he hadn’t really been expecting much. Not much a friend could do against direct orders. 

"Why do you wanna talk to that guy anyways? Domestic terrorists, not really your type.” 

“I don’t know, I just feel like we have this….connection. I was thinking I could use it to try and get some intel, or something.” 

“Sorry, bud. We only have him for a couple more hours before he gets shipped off to D.C., anyways. I’m sure they’ll get everything out of him they need.” 

“Yeah,” Steve muttered, “yeah, you’re probably right.” 

“Hey, don’t look all kicked-puppy. You're already the hero here, Rogers, you caught the guy, right? You did your job, now let the Feds do theirs.” 

Gabe gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. Steve attempted a smile, but he had a feeling it came out more like a grimace. 

“I’ll send one of the uniforms to show you out. And hey, don’t be a stranger, Steve. You know we all worry about you after—“ 

Steve nodded quickly, “Yeah, I won’t, thanks Gabe, see you around.” 

Gabe gave him one last half-smile, before turning around and walking back towards the row of offices. Steve sighed and walked over to the window. His headache was back. 

“Steve.” A soft voice said. 

Fury was standing next to him, dressed in soft, blue prison garb. Steve stared at him and then looked around to see if anyone noticed their highest security threat standing un-cuffed and free beside him. No one seemed to notice. 

Fury held out his hand. Tentatively, Steve reached out and touched his fingertips to Fury’s. They were cold and solid and….real. 

“You’re here.” He whispered, looking back up to Fury. “I can feel you.” 

“Yes,” Fury said, “you can.”

A small crease appeared between Steve’s eyebrows. “But….you’re not really _here_ , are you?” 

Fury smiled slightly. “No. I’m in solitary confinement.” 

He now stood in the middle of a bare prison cell, still touching hands with Fury, who was sitting and leaning against the wall. Steve’s mouth dropped open as he spun around. He was fully and completely in the cell. He could see all four walls, could feel the floor beneath his feet, could feel the draftiness from the single, high window. He could feel everything as though it were happening to him, first-hand. 

“Carol called it ‘visiting.’ Members of a cluster do it instinctively and others,” he gestured between himself and Steve, “like us, can visit if they’ve made visual contact, eye-to-eye.” 

Steve stared down at him for another moment before taking a deep breath and reaching out to touch the wall. It was solid, cold. 

“This—this is cold. How can I feel this unless I’m here?” 

“Because I can feel it. When Sensates visit, what we are doing right now, we share physical sensation. Touch, smell, taste, sight, and hearing. When Sensates ’share’ we exchange mental and emotional sensation. Knowledge, thought, dreams, and emotion.” 

“No….no this doesn’t make sense.” Steve said, shaking his head. 

He kept his hands on the wall, marveling at the cold sensation, unable to pull himself away. 

“You just spoke Russian, Steve.” 

“I can’t speak Russian.” 

“Yes, you can. I expect you were sharing with Ms. Romanov? You exchanged her knowledge for yours. Whatever you knew, she knew and whatever she knew, you now know. Once you understand this, you will be able to do extraordinary things, Steve.” 

“But, I don’t understand. How is this all possible? What’s happening to me?” Steve said. 

Fury leaned forward. “You are no longer just you. Your soul, your mind, your chi, whatever you want to call it, is more than just your own. It is now intertwined with seven others.” 

“Mr. Rogers?” 

Steve turned around. He was back at the window, staring down at the jail parking lot. Fury was no longer beside him. A man in a uniform was waiting behind him. 

“Will you come with me, please?” He asked. 

Steve turned and looked next to him one last time before nodding and following the man out of the jail. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

The ceiling was moving. 

Peter opened and closed his eyes blearily, the lights above him blurry and too bright. He frowned. 

Ceilings don’t move. 

People move, ceilings stay still. 

He tried to brush the hair out of his eyes, but when he went to lift his hand up, he found that he couldn’t. 

Oh, right. He was handcuffed to the bed. 

Why was he handcuffed again?

The lights were too bright and the ceiling was moving.

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

Steve opened his car door and climbed inside. Only once the door was safely closed and locked, did he let himself freak out. 

“What the fuck.” He slammed his hands on the wheel. “What the fuck?!” 

“I understand the sentiment, but right now, you need to focus.” Fury said. 

“Fuck!” Steve jumped and turned to the right. Sure enough, Fury was sitting in his passenger side seat, staring calmly at him. 

“We don’t have much time.” 

“I tried to contact you. When we were walking out of the jail.” Steve said.

Fury shook his head. “Visiting is not calling or texting someone. It is not something you do, it is something you let happen. It took me quite some time to understand the difference. Time you do not have.”

Steve blinked. He was standing in the middle of Fury’s jail cell.

"There is something else you must understand about sharing. It can only happen within your cluster, and it is probably one of the most important tools your cluster has. You have to use it now.” 

“What’s a cluster?” He asked.

“You have seven other selves, now. But unless you hurry, there’s only going to be six. Peter Parker is about to be destroyed. I told you about him when we first met, in that bar. He lives in New York City. You have to save him, Steve, and in doing so, save yourself.” 

The door to the cell unlocked. Two men in hazmat suits entered. They paid Steve no attention and went straight for Fury. 

“Wait….wait!” Steve yelled. “Fury!” 

But there was no answer. He was back in his car, alone. 

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

They were in a different room now and the ceiling in this one wasn’t moving. A nurse walked toward Peter, a large needle in her hands. 

Peter shook his head, he really didn’t want that needle anywhere near him. He tried to move away, but his limbs felt tired and heavy. The nurse tutted. 

“This is for your own good, Peter. Just relax.” She said. 

Peter shook his head again. “No, no,” he whispered, his tongue dry and swollen, “No! Stop! Somebody! Somebody help me!” 

He was screaming now. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

Steve whipped his head from side to side, trying to find the source of the screaming. He felt panic that was not his own rising up inside him. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his frantic breathing and reach for that new sensation in his chest. 

“Who are you?” He whispered. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a hospital room, standing next to a bed with a small, brown-haired man in it. The man looked drugged, on the verge of passing out. Steve, himself, felt woozy and slow, his limbs heavy and his brain fuzzy. 

Peter turned his head towards Steve and whispered, “Help me….” 

The hospital disappeared and Steve was back in his car. 

“Fuck!”

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

Peter wondered where the blonde man had gone. 

He wanted him to come back. 

He felt scared. 

He couldn’t remember why. 

**

_Natasha -St. Petersburg, Russia_

“Natasha!” 

Natasha stood and walked into Madam’s office. She had long since washed the spray of blood off her face from Anatole’s leg wound, but it still felt dry and itchy. She resisted the urge to scratch her cheek.

“Sit.” Madam said, gesturing to the wooden chair across from her. 

Natasha sat. 

“You are a good worker, Natasha.” 

Natasha inclined her head slightly. “Thank you, Madam.” 

She held up a hand. “I’m not finished. You are a good worker, which is why I am confused about the reports coming in. I hear about a man suffocated with a pillow, another one shot in the leg, and I think to myself, ’no, surely this cannot be _my_ Natasha.’” 

Natasha didn't say anything. There were no words that would dissuade whatever punishment Madam had cooked up. 

After another second, Madam spoke again. “But, maybe my instinct was wrong about you. It’s happened before, although not often.” She sat back and steepled her fingers. “I hate being wrong, Natasha. It is my biggest pet peeve. Was I wrong about you?” 

Natasha shook her head. 

“No?” Madam let out a little laugh. “Ah, the girl says no. How confusing! The girl says no, and yet I’ve lost over five-thousand dollars from the girl's mistakes. It seems like I was wrong, no?” 

“Let me make it up. I will make up the five-thousand.” Natasha said, finally lifting her head. 

Pride. It had always been pride for her. She could struggle with her moral compass, her empathy, her guilt, all day long, but pride had always tipped the scale. The drive to prove herself, to impress her teachers, her trainers, and now to impress Madam. 

“ _Let_ you make it up? No, girl, you _will_ make it up.”

Natasha dropped her head again. This was not a discussion. 

"His name is Nikolai and he is going to his family’s home out in the country for the weekend. He’d like company. Would you like to be Nikolai’s company?”

Natasha nodded. 

She clapped her hands together. “Perfect! It is all settled then. You will make me proud, yes?” 

Another nod. 

“Proud and _rich_ , eh girl?” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda woke up sweating. She touched her face. There were tears drying on her cheeks. 

It was her third dream about Pietro that night. She had woken up, sobbing or screaming, after each one, looking around wildly for the shine of his hair or the warmth of his hand. She had found nothing each time. 

She sighed and threw the covers back. There was no chance of her getting any more sleep tonight. She regretted the sleep she had gotten in the first place. 

It was colder on the roof of Hope and Scott’s apartment than in her bedroom and Wanda was grateful for her blanket, wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She sat on the edge, her feet dangling down. 

She closed her eyes and breathed in the cold air. It helped burn away the grief threatening to choke her from the inside out. 

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

Katie clinked their glasses together. 

“You made a stupid-ass decision and now it’s barely paying off! I’ve never been prouder, Clint Barton.” 

Clint snorted and took a long swig of the ten dollar champagne Katie had gotten as a joke. The burn of the alcohol did nothing to ease the anxiety in his chest every time he thought of the envelope he had slid into a mailbox an hour ago. Ten one-hundred dollar bills. Every single one of them stolen. The fact that he was now one payment closer to paying off his father’s debt didn’t change the fact that Barney was still going to find out.

And when he did, Clint was still going to be a dead man. 

“I say we break out the vodka, get some music goin’ and celebrate one the last days of your sorry-ass life. Whatdya say, Barton?” Katie said, nudging his shoulder. 

“You know I never turn down vodka, Katie-Kate.” 

She grinned and turned up the old radio on his coffee table. 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda put in her headphones and scrolled through her phone. She found the song she was looking for and pressed play, humming along to the first few guitar cords. 

She turned the song up and took a deep breath. The sound filled her head up, pushing any lingering thoughts about her nightmares to the edge of her mind. There was nothing to focus on except the cool, night air and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_Got a big tattoo in Colorado Springs,_

_Jumped straight in the river just to feel the sting_

_of a permanent decision on my fleeting, physical body_.

**

Clint - Berlin, Germany

“Oh, I love this song, turn it up!” Katie said. 

Clint reached over and turned the radio’s knob up. He took a deep breath.

The sound filled his head up, pushing any guilt or anxiety to the edge of his mind. There was nothing to focus on except the taste of shitty champagne and the soft vibrations of the song

_Took my time getting up to the west coast,_

_Read theory in the woods,_

_Drove so low, my corolla hates me for all of those_

_backroad pot holes_

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A_. 

“Hey, J, turn up the music, will you?” 

There was no response, but the song became much louder. It filled his head up, pushing any thoughts of palladium to the edge of his mind. There was nothing to focus on except the wrench in his hand and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_Being alone is freedom_

_to me now,_

_Picking up stones to pray to,_

_I think me and God have the same roots_

**

_Bruce - Kampala, Uganda_

After a few hours of driving, Bruce had finally relaxed his hands on the steering wheel. He had taken the first exit he’d seen, skidding around the corner as he went. Three hours later, and there was still no sign of a big, black van following him. 

He rolled the windows down and let the cool, Kampala air blow his hair back. The radio was turned up all the way and the sound filled him up, pushing any lingering fear of being followed to the edge of his mind. There was nothing to focus on except the long road in front of him and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_How can you call it home_

_if you can’t take it_

_with you?_

**

_Clint - Berlin, Germany_

“Come on, Clint, sing along!” Katie shouted, jumping up on the couch.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him up with her. He grinned and holding up his champagne glass like a microphone, started to sing along to the lyrics. 

_I surrendered my sword to a midnight sky,_

_The quiet composed herself and asked me why_

_I’ve been fighting_

**

_Natasha - St. Petersburg, Russia_

The shower was as hot as Natasha could stand it. She breathed in the steamy air and reached for her phone, turning her music all the way up. The sound filled the small bathroom, pushing all traces of Madam’s disappointment to the edge of her mind. There was nothing to focus on except the hot water and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_Then the earth cracked once and gave me_

_a bolt of lightning_

_**_

_Wanda - London, England_

Wanda lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. She watched it float away into the night sky. 

She felt the press of warm bodies on either side of her. Natasha and Bruce sat on her left, Natasha’s arm around him. On her right, sat Tony and Clint. Clint held on to a champagne glass and clinked it against Tony’s wrench. They both laughed and, as the next verse came, sang at the top of their lungs. 

_You are everything you want to be,_

_You are powerless and powerful_

_by the grace of me,_

_Come home_

_come home_

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

Steve scrolled through Peter Parker’s FaceBook page. He almost couldn’t believe it was all real, and yet, here was the proof. The man in the pictures, although much happier and healthier, was undoubtedly the man he saw in the hospital room. 

He sighed and adjusted his headphones. The song that was playing through them was comforting, peaceful. He raised the volume and allowed the sound to fill him up. There was nothing to focus on except the screen in front of him and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_Being alone is freedom_

_to me now_

_**_

_Thor - San Francisco, California, U.S.A._

Thor finally gave up on packing for the night, tossing his suitcase off the bed and laying back against the pillows. He could hear a song playing, though his phone was across the room from him. It was as though it was playing out of the back of his own mind. 

The sound filled him up, pushing any thoughts of his father and the coronation to the edge of his mind. There was nothing to focus on except the bed beneath him and the soft vibrations of the song. 

_I sit with myself in darkness_

_and when I can’t find where the light is_

_I look for a beautiful thing_

_and recognize a piece of it_

_in me_

**

_Tony - Malibu, California, U.S.A._

There was a man standing next to Tony, murmuring along to the song. Tony looked over and felt his breath catch in the back of this throat. 

He was mesmerizing. Soft face, huge eyes, slim body. He was wearing a hospital gown. 

Tony reached out slowly, feeling like he was in a trance. He touched the tips of his fingers to the man’s hand and his whole body stiffened against the feeling that sparked there. 

The man brought their hands up, palm to palm, and leaned forward, mouth curving into a lazy smile. Tony wanted to bathe in that smile. The song continued to play. 

_It is through love you are sustained,_

_You are self-contained_

**

_Peter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

Peter whispered the words to the song under his breath, still holding on to Tony's hand. It felt like an anchor, keeping him here, keeping him alive. 

He could hear the sounds of surgery being prepped across the room, but no one seemed to notice the billionaire standing by his bed. Peter had never been more glad of anything in his entire life. He closed his eyes and thanked whatever god was out there that the last thing he saw before he died was going to be Tony Stark’s face, hallucination or not. 

“Peter.” A voice said. 

Peter didn’t open his eyes. He could tell that Tony was gone. He didn’t want to see whoever had replaced him. 

“Peter!” It said again, more urgently this time. “Peter, you need to focus, you need to leave here.” 

He cracked one eye open. The man standing next to his bed had dark skin and a black eyepatch over one eye. He shook his shoulder. 

Peter closed his eyes again. So much for Tony Stark being the last face he ever saw. 

**

_Steve - Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A._

When Steve opened his eyes again, he was greeted by the sight of a white ceiling. He frowned and looked around. He was in the hospital room he had seen Peter in. Which meant…. 

Sure enough, when he looked down, he saw handcuffs around his wrists and a hospital gown covering his legs. This must be what Fury meant by “sharing.” 

He had to work fast. He could tell the nurses and doctors were almost ready to get started with the surgery, and the drugs flowing through his system were making him drowsy and slow. 

Using his teeth, he yanked the IV out of his arm, wincing at the slight sting, and, using the needle, picked the lock on his handcuffs. He stumbled to his feet, trying to be as quiet as possible, and pushed through the double doors out into the hall. 

The hallway was long and looked distorted, but Steve, with one hand on the wall, staggered down it, anyways. When he heard shouts from the surgery room, he ducked into the first door he saw, which ended up being a — thankfully — empty hospital suite. 

**

P _eter - New York, New York, U.S.A._

Once Peter heard the sounds of running feet pass outside the door, he opened it carefully. The hallway was empty. He tip-toed his way to the elevator, shaking his head every so often to try and get his thinking more clear. 

He had a quick debate with himself — elevator or stairs — before he heard another pair of running feet and ducked into the stairwell out of pure necessity. It was the wrong choice. The drugs were strong and he wasn’t going fast enough. 

When he had reached the bottom of the first set of stairs, he headed straight for the elevator. He pushed the button and waited, breathing heavily. He had no idea what he was going to do if there was someone in the elevator. He certainly didn’t look like he should be leaving the hospital any time soon, and what if it was one of the nurses or doctors? 

Peter held his breath as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open and he found himself face-to-face with….MJ?

“Oh there you are, Miles! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She said, her eyes wide. She was, somehow, wearing nurses scrubs.

There was one other patient in the elevator who, after a quick glance at Peter, seemed entirely uninterested in the whole exchange. 

“Uhhh,” Peter said. 

MJ grabbed his arm, pulling him in to the elevator. 

“Here,” she said, forcing him down into the wheelchair she was holding, “why don’t you take a seat?” 

He sat down as they started moving, his heart in his throat. One of MJ’s hands was on his shoulder. He reached up and grabbed it. She squeezed, hard. A tear fell down his cheek. 

When the elevator had reached the bottom floor and the doors opened, MJ held them for the other patient and then rolled him through.

“Alright, we’re almost out, we’re almost there,” she whispered to him, “now all we need is a little luck.” 

They were heading towards the doors that went to the street outside and Peter almost gasped when he saw them. He was so, so close. 

“Hey, ma'am, sorry, we’re on lockdown. Nobody in or out.” The security guard at the front desk said. Peter ducked his head. 

MJ ignored him, walking faster towards the doors. 

“Ma’am?"

MJ was running now, they were _almost there_. She reached the handle of the door at the same time the security guard called for backup on his radio and Peter could smell the fresh air and feel the breeze and then they were through the doors. 

There was a cab waiting for them and MJ pulled him into it, the driver taking off before she’d even gotten the door closed. 

They both turned and watched from the back window as the security guard ran out onto the sidewalk, yelling and pointing at the cab. Deliriously, Peter raised a hand and waved at him. 

MJ laughed wetly and pulled him into a fierce hug. 

“Fuck, I missed you, Parker.” 

He closed his eyes. 

“I missed you too.” 

**

_Wanda - London, England_

There was only one man sitting next to Wanda now. He had brown hair and wore a hospital dress. He was crying. She took his hand and together, they sang along to the last verse. 

_It is through love you are sustained,_

_You are self-contained_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Also, the song at the end is "Lena Grove" by Eliza McLamb and it's fantastic, I highly recommend.


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